


Poison From A Bee Sting

by Lamachine



Series: Live Wires [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bloodplay, Child Abuse, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2561573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamachine/pseuds/Lamachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was blood on her hands, and it had been on her so long she didn’t remember how it felt like not to have it there, sticky and warm and condemning. She didn’t have noble excuses to hide behind or patriotic flags to wave about; Root had nowhere to hide, and so many things to pay for." </p><p>Sequel to <em>On Your Only Bones</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October

Traffic hours always seemed to put her into a good mood; Root didn’t know if it was the chaos of so many cars glued to the asphalt like snails, or the constant horns and yells that filled the air. All in all, she loved opening the windows and letting the noise in, even though Sameen hated it – even more now that it allowed the cold autumn air inside her apartment, carelessly waving the curtains as if mocking.

 

From Sameen’s bed Root stared at the sunlight tracing lines on the wall, the sun slowly coming down from its zenith. To her it created a minimalist painting she had come to love, changing from month to month, depending on the weather, on the rotation and inclination of the Earth. She studied every difference, ignoring Sameen’s complaints that she was acting weird again. But to Root those moments were always perfect; with the constant noises outside, and the sun setting, the whole day slowed down like it didn’t know where the evening was headed and that, somehow, was comforting.

 

Sameen’s hand ran up her thigh, familiar and warm, and Root closed her eyes for a moment, revelling in the scent of Sameen’s perfume. For months she had smelled it on her own clothes at the oddest of times; it glued to Root’s skin during those brief hours they could both steal away from numbers, relevant and irrelevant alike, and the scent stayed with Root afterwards, lingering on whatever she was wearing that day; whatever clothes she had discarded in a rush. Sameen’s perfume came back to Root every now and then, on a rooftop in Berlin or in an alleyway in San Francisco, and every time it created an odd heat across her chest, a burning that wasn’t unpleasant.

 

Although between Sameen’s bed sheets, it rapidly turned into a fire; a sharp pain wrapped around her sternum that worsened as Root met Sameen’s eyes. There was a shadow in Sameen’s gaze recently, some glooming worry when she meticulously checked up Root’s recent wounds, redoing her bandages even when they were still clean, _just in case_. All the while Sameen asked more questions about Root’s missions and her whereabouts, and Root didn’t know what to make of it or how to answer. She noticed Sameen’s fingers becoming gentler, her tone softening, her movements less rushed.

 

It reminded her of that day, almost a year ago, when Sameen had asked for Root to stay – had almost begged her with a sad voice Root had never heard before; _I just don’t know what this is_. Root didn’t know either – months later, she still had no idea, not really. She didn’t know what strange compulsion got her heart racing every time she was with Sameen, how it was possible for Root to miss her while she was away, and at the same time be unable to _stay_. She felt restless, every day a little more than the one before, and she would never spend more than a few hours with Sameen before using the Machine as an excuse to leave.

 

Lately she suspected Sameen had noticed the lies, and it only deepened her guilt.

 

It wasn’t like Sameen was asking for anything, really. She’d take Root as she came, but Root wondered why Sameen’s hands lingered, why her hands weren’t as rough as before. Root would push her buttons then, annoy her and tease her until Sameen would finally bruise her, marking every inch of Root like she was hers. That wouldn’t help for long; days later Root would look at herself in the mirror and notice some contusion turning into a yellowish brown circle and she’d think of Sameen’s sad eyes and hear her voice again. _Don’t leave_.

 

That afternoon she had settled on swallowing one too many drinks with Sameen, numbing herself to forget about that an unbearable heat that made her want to run away. It made her itch as Sameen’s eyes slowly embraced her skin, gaze almost crawling under it and Root tried her best to ignore the slow shift in Sameen’s behavior, tried to forget the way it seemed the fire inside her would burn until she’d choke on the smoke.

 

“What’s with you these days?” Sameen asked when Root’s bite turned more angry than aroused.

 

Root didn’t answer, her fingers scratching Sameen’s back furiously.

 

“Root,” she groaned, pushing Root deeper into the mattress, “just tell me what’s going on.”

 

“Never picked you for the talking type,” Root teased with a smirk, one hand running down Sameen’s arm, kneading the muscles.

 

Sameen shook her head. “Fine,” she grunted, leaning down. As her lips reached Root’s, Root turned her face to the side, wincing.

 

“Will you do something for me?” Root whispered nervously, and Sameen’s frown deepened as she waited for the rest of that sentence. “Your knife,” Root started, throwing a glance towards the settee. “Could you...?”

 

It wasn’t the first time they had used Sameen’s knife, but Root had never really asked for it before, and the question lingered between them, heavy in the afternoon’s end. Root wished she hadn’t said anything, or that Sameen would just agree without giving it a second thought. But Sameen wasn’t like Root; she didn’t go head first and think of an escape plan later, and this was something Root liked, she needed to remind herself; it was something she loved about Sameen.

 

“It’s not sterilized,” Sameen started, but averted her eyes. “Give me a minute?”

 

Root almost gleamed, the burning inside strangely soothed at the sight of Sameen, naked as she sat on the side of the bed, carefully cleaning her blade.

 

“It still has to dry up a bit,” she argued when Root pulled her close, a smirk finally back on Root’s face.

 

Root snaked one leg around Sameen’s waist, rolling her hips against Sameen, warm and demanding. “Now, Sam,” she begged, biting on her lower lip as she wrapped her arms around Sameen’s neck, urging her closer. There was something pressing in her voice, some distress she didn’t want coming through and yet it did; she only hoped Sameen didn’t hear it.

 

She longed for blazing cuts on her skin, needed it desperately and when Sameen finally caved in Root revelled in the sudden pain, her blood swelling up at the surface of her chest, red lines that viciously burned up.

 

Once again she felt Sameen’s fingers moving inside her, and Root arched her body into her rhythm, hips grinding against the hand.

 

“More,” Root asked, placing her hand around Sameen’s wrist, forcing her to push the blade harder against her skin.

 

“Will you just let me?” Sameen groaned, shaking off Root’s hand. Instead of cutting, this time Sameen pressed the tip against the skin until it broke, and Root gasped.

 

There was something new and exciting in that pain; the feeling of the knife puncturing instead of cutting, and she swallowed hard. Sameen dug into Root a few other holes, creating a strange constellation of little red lines here and there above her breast. “Deeper,” Root begged and Sameen moved between her legs, pushing her fingers inside roughly. Root moaned, her breath warm against Sameen’s skin, yet she shook her head; “I meant the knife.”

 

Sameen frowned. “Can’t,” she answered, staring at Root with the same worried gaze Root had wanted to forget.

 

She bit down her lip. “Yes you can,” she argued, the movement between her legs stopping as Root lifted herself up, hanging back on her elbows. “You can patch me up later,” she suggested, hoping her voice conveyed all her trust.

 

Above her, Sameen didn’t look convinced; she pulled out her fingers before she leaned forward to place the knife back on the settee. “You’re not thinking straight,” she argued.

 

“Never am when you’re around,” Root purred, but Sameen only seemed more annoyed. Root pulled her down, tugging on her hair and biting on her lip until Sameen agreed to kiss her again. “Why don’t you just fuck me?” she whispered against Sameen’s mouth, and that finally got her a reaction. Root gasped when Sameen returned her hand between her legs, moving roughly against her labia.

 

When Root came a few minutes later, Sameen’s name at the back of her throat, she felt her eyes watering and pretended not to notice the way Sameen’s lips soothed her cuts. She pulled on Sameen’s hair until she agreed to meet her in a kiss. Root tasted her own blood on Sameen’s mouth and exhaled then, some strange relief settling in her chest as the sun set down on the city.

 

 

[...]

 

 

It wasn’t often that the Machine asked Root to help with an irrelevant number in between her own missions, and every time it left Root a little bit more exhausted, trying to keep up with Sameen despite the lack of sleep and the jetlag. It was a long, boring drive all the way to Lancaster, PA, and after a while the sound of the engine lulled Root into sleep, head leaning against the cold window.

 

When she woke up, hearing Sameen shift on the seat beside her, Root kept her eyes closed a little longer. For a few seconds, half-asleep with the sunlight falling on her face, she felt warm and cosy, and thought she could stay like that, half asleep with Sameen by her side, peaceful and quiet. There was an awkward twinge lingering in her neck, and she ended up sitting back on the passenger seat, awkwardly trying to stretch her legs, definitely awake.

 

Sameen didn’t mention Root falling asleep, her eyes still on the road, yet she glanced at Root with a worried gaze. Root’s muscles ached as she moved; her neck sore while she felt Sameen’s gaze on her and the oddness returned, that uncomfortable heat in her chest, lurking, choking.

 

The Machine informed Root that they had reached their destination and she noticed the pale form of the Stone Mill Plaza standing at the corner of the street. She swallowed hard, blinking furiously as she tried to concentrate on the Machine’s voice, being herself quite silent as Sameen parked the car in the large parking lot of a suburban town.

 

“Alright,” Sameen pulled out a coin from her pocket, ignoring Root’s yawns. “Who’s going in?”

 

Root blinked, unsure. She vaguely remembered their number’s name, and something about an insurance company, but nothing more. Sameen sighed.

 

“Are you even awake?” Sameen mocked, but it wasn’t as annoyed as it used to be – it sounded like the familiar banter of someone who earnestly worried, and Root remembered how many times she had that pointless discussion with Sameen, about how Sameen thought the Machine was asking too much, forcing Root to deal with relevant numbers on her own. She didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth; that Root begged for those missions like her life depended on them.

 

Root cleared her throat. “Maybe you should run point on this one,” she suggested with a raspy voice, brushing a hand against her eyes. She felt more exhausted than she had before, and didn’t even react when Sameen sighed loudly, turning on her earpiece.

 

“Fine,” she opened the car door, “but you owe me dinner.”

 

Root stared as Sameen made her way through what little traffic there was, heading straight to the main exterior entrance of the office, where their number apparently worked alone as an insurance broker.

 

“Can I help you?” he asked Sameen with a charming voice as soon as she entered.

 

In the car, Root pulled out her laptop from beneath her seat, hacking into the mall’s security system and accessing the camera feeds – the one that should’ve been inside wasn’t functioning.

 

“I don’t have eyes in there, Shaw,” she warned Sameen. She didn’t receive a response but she knew Sameen had heard her anyway, and she focused on changing the angle of the parking lot’s camera that filmed just in front of his store, trying to peek into its large bay window.

 

“Yes, well, I was thinking of getting myself a life insurance,” Sameen’s faked enthusiasm brought a smile to Root’s lips, “I know I’m a bit old to start looking.” She flashed a smile even though the number cut her off.

 

“I don’t think anyone’s ever too old to start looking,” he smirked, and Root felt her heart beating hard against her rib cage, as if it wanted out. She stared at the black and white screen, Sameen’s blurry silhouette leaning against the counter, the confident man smiling as he remained sit behind his counter. He removed the glasses from his familiar face before he stood and introduced himself, but Root barely listened anymore.

 

She kept her eyes on his every move, watching like a hawk. The thought of Sameen beside him – _him_ , of all people – made her sick and she struggled not to ask Sameen to come back to the car immediately. But no matter what, a number was a number, and Root knew Sameen would never forgive her if she came in the way of helping someone. Even him.

 

The Machine buzzed in her ear, listing the man’s past aliases to Root, a long flow of names and cities and she thought of hers, her seemingly endless list of names she had used, of persons she had pretended to be over the years. She could still name them all, like ghosts she carried around with her; versions of her that had never been alive to begin with. Data ghosts, she thought.

 

She didn’t know if they were worse than real ones.

 

She could see it in the way the number smiled; how he was used to conning people, how he tricked them into trusting him. She noticed how he suggested weakness – sitting behind the desk, taking his glasses off – and then intimacy – the warm handshake, a little rant about his family, of which the Machine found no record of. It was easy really, and Root knew that game well. Better than him, she thought, yet the comparison made her sick.

 

His charming smile, the way he picked his words carefully, his tone authoritative yet colored with soft edges; it wasn’t unlike the one Root remembered using herself so many times before. It seemed to her like a reaffirmation of what she had always known about herself and she flinched, only glad that no one was there to notice her trouble.

 

Sameen continued the conversation with the number, pretending to be interested in his offers. All the while she asked all the right questions, confirming the feeling Root already had; that he truly wasn’t an insurance broker, but a con man who faked insurance papers and collected the monthly payments. It was a long con with a nice set up, indicating he was more likely settled down somewhere in the area, and Root started searching the address of his apartment, guessing they could find some lead there. As Root did so, Sameen finally left the office, walking back to the car and dropping her fake smile.

 

“Our man is working quite the con,” she told Root via her earpiece. “Every payment goes through him; I’m guessing he gets the money until the reclamations pile up, and then leaves before the heat gets too intense.”

 

“Well his number came up, so it would seem like this time he isn’t packing quickly enough,” Root replied, but she wasn’t really focused, a sudden sense of dread overtaking her. She wondered for a moment if she could just get out of there; the Machine had given her an address, and she imagined driving away, leaving Sameen behind to keep eyes on the number. Then again, she couldn’t settle on letting Sameen spend another moment alone with him.

 

“Root?” Sameen groaned, avoiding a couple with a stroller.

 

Root blinked, confused, “what?”

 

Sameen rolled her eyes – Root couldn’t really see from where she was, but she knew just from Sameen’s tone, the annoyance at being forced to repeat herself more than obvious. “Can you access his computer?”

 

Without another word Root hacked the private network of the mall, but couldn’t find anything listed under his name or his company’s.

 

“I don’t see a wifi connection,” she informed Sameen as she double-checked to be sure. Somehow she didn’t trust her exhaustion or her feelings, her instincts still screaming at her to get out of there – to take Sameen and leave Lancaster at once.

 

“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” Sameen complained, “his whole office looked like it’s1990 again.”

 

Root looked up from her computer screen for a moment, as if to confirm that Sameen was truly coming back to her, safely leaving the mall and their number behind, and then returned her attention to her laptop. Somehow it was easier to breathe now, as if the more distance Sameen put between her and their number, the less danger she was in – which was ridiculous, because he was nothing but a pathetic con man in a small city, and there was nothing dangerous about him – or at least, nothing Sameen couldn’t easily handle, eyes closed.

 

Still, the feeling lingered until Sameen opened the car door.

 

“Any idea where to go next,” Sameen asked as she sat behind the wheel, turning off her earpiece.

 

“I know a place,” Root winked, but her heart wasn’t in it. Sameen apparently didn’t notice, since she only seemed annoyed again, and they drove away, Sameen following Root’s indications without a word.

 

The silence in the car was nearly deafening as Root looked out the window, wondering if her trouble was obvious since she couldn’t stop worrying at her lip. She ran a hand through her hair and hoped Sameen couldn’t see how it was trembling. For a moment she thought of telling Sameen everything, revealing what she had just learned about the man they had left behind at that ridiculously small shopping center, but she couldn’t find the words.

 

She stared at the landscape; ordinary houses in an ordinary town, and Root convinced herself that is was better not to tell. Safer to keep the information to herself, because if she told Sameen, if she said the words aloud, then they would be true, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

 

Root kept her mouth tight shut.

 

Their number’s apartment was a small, grim bachelor just above a corner store. As Sameen went through the cabinets and drawers, Root opened his laptop, trying not to think of what she was doing exactly – of where she was.

 

Still, she couldn’t keep her eyes from lingering on the pile of dirty clothes lying on a chair in the corner, on the TV remote falling between two cushions. She wondered what was inside the refrigerator, and for a moment feared she was losing her mind as her eyes surprisingly watered.

 

“That’s what you did, right?” Sameen asked as she inspected the place, avoiding to look directly at Root. “Long cons?”

 

Root didn’t like the reminder or the comparison, but it was true nonetheless, and Sameen knew it all too well. She cleared her throat, looking up and blinking, hoping Sameen wouldn’t see the tears she didn’t want to shed.

 

“I did short ones first,” Root replied awkwardly as she typed in, her fingers dancing on the keyboard while she thoroughly ignored Sameen’s eyes boring into her. “Stealing PINs, cloning cards.”

 

“Ever did insurance fraud?” Sameen seemed to give up on understanding whatever was going on with her, and for that Root was grateful.

 

Root shook her head. “Not my type; too many risks of it tracing back to you,” she continued, skimming through the files. “Most of my cons, I was out of town before they even knew they had been robbed... but I got bored with it pretty quickly.”

 

“And then you started the wetwork,” Shaw finished, sparing her a glance. “I’m not judging, I’m just saying, it’s what you did.”

 

“I know it’s what I did,” Root replied with a sigh, averting her eyes. Her stomach tightened uncomfortably, a sensation not unlike what she had felt when she had first realised her connection with Cyrus Wells – her responsibility in his sudden change of career. She tried to focus on his words then, his reassurances about a bigger plan, and then on those of the Machine, about rewriting faulty codes. Yet Root wondered, not for the first time, if she truly deserved this second chance.

 

There was blood on her hands, and it had been on her so long she didn’t remember how it felt like not to have it there, sticky and warm and condemning. She didn’t have noble excuses to hide behind or patriotic flags to wave about; Root had nowhere to hide, and so many things to pay for.

 

She looked at Sameen, who had tried to save lives as a doctor and then as a soldier, as Catalyst Indigo and now helping the Machine with irrelevant numbers. Sameen who could cut like a double-edged sword, who was efficient and strong, and did not doubt herself like Root did.

 

Sameen spared her a glance, but didn’t insist.

 

Somehow the silence that followed was only worse.

 

 

[...]

 

 

Breaking into their number’s office later that night had been more effective than their visit to his apartment, and Root had quickly found some interesting files in there. Apparently he had recently received an insurance claim for a family member of a local drug dealer with impressive connections, and who was likely to retaliate soon.

 

Root quickly transmitted the information to Sameen, who had followed their number to some shady bar in a majorly industrial part of town. Root had been the one busting in while Sameen kept an eye on their number and she didn’t like it one bit, but it seemed better than the alternative.

 

She was replacing the files in the number’s cabinet when Sameen asked her in a hushed voice, “you have to get here.” Root’s heart stopped then, the anguish she had felt earlier washing down on her like a cold wave. She swallowed hard, locking the office behind her before she made her way out of the mall and into the empty dark streets.

 

“What’s your ETA?” Sameen insisted, breathing heavily. Root didn’t hear gunshots – yet, her mind reminded her – which she took as a good sign.

 

“Ten minutes,” she replied as the Machine informed her of Sameen’s localisation, and how to get there quickly on foot.

 

She followed the Machine’s directions to a shadier part of town where factories and dirty taverns thrived, but as she got closer to Sameen Root forgot the voice buzzing in her implant and ran towards the gunshots echoing through the empty streets instead. She quickly found Sameen ducking behind their car, being shot at by three masked men on the other side of the street, with their number close by, trying to crawl towards safety.

 

“I’m here,” Root walked over rapidly, firing back, and Sameen took that window of opportunity to move away from her safe location and grab their number, pulling him behind another parked vehicle. Root clipped one of the assailants in the meantime, trying to ignore the way the panicked man held onto Sameen, pulling on her clothes and keeping her from getting up, begging for her to stay down with him. Sameen managed to stand anyway, just in time to fire at a man coming up behind Root.

 

“Watch your back,” Sameen grunted as Root recharged. The Machine had warned her of the threat but somehow Root felt slow and uneasy, eyes staring at the blood their number was losing. Shot in the thigh, his pants had taken a darker colour and a red puddle formed under him, sticking on the bottom of Sameen’s combats boots.

 

He had grey hair now, and didn’t have that Texan accent, but she had recognised him almost immediately that afternoon, and he looked almost surreal from up close. Root’s heart stopped for a moment and nausea overcame her senses. It was as if the sight of blood made their connection undeniable, the small rivers on the asphalt that reminded her of some saying she hadn’t heard in a long time; something about drops of water coming back to the sea. A cycle completed; like it was inevitable that someday, one would return to where they came from.

 

She took her eyes off him then, aiming precisely where the Machine told her too, and got the last man standing. As the assailant cried out loud, she heard Sameen’s voice, weakened as if from far away.

 

“We have to go,” she pulled on Root’s arm, bringing her back to reality. “Root,” she insisted, and Root blinked. “We should call an ambulance.”

 

Root stared at her, uncertain. She looked at the con man bleeding out beside them, and then back at Sameen. Her mind quickly reviewed the facts; they were in an empty area, almost entirely devoid of any circulation – it wasn’t very likely that anybody had heard the shootout, and the man needed assistance if he was to survive. Their car had been shot way too many times to be drivable, and Sameen looked weary of stealing one to bring him to a hospital.

 

“I crushed my phone,” Sameen insisted. “Root, he needs an ambulance.”

 

In the course of her life, Root had dialed 911 exactly two times. She remembered well the anxiety that came with it, the feeling that she was about to do something that wasn’t allowed. To dial a number that no one should dial. The feeling that her heart was going to pop out of her chest, and that burning down her throat that made her voice sound weird – like it wasn’t hers.

 

Once she had called to report the kidnapping of her friend Hanna, and no one had helped her. And then a few years later, when she had found her dead mother lying in the middle of the living room, the dispatcher had sent strangers to her house to pick up the body, and Root had stared at them from the couch, her feet up on the cushions even though she wasn’t allowed to.

 

She wasn’t about to call 911 again, not for him, not even to save his life. She just couldn’t call there again, couldn’t bring her hand to pick up the phone from her pocket.

 

She walked away without another word, Sameen in tow.

 

“Root,” Sameen insisted. “Is there an ambulance on the way?”

 

The Machine didn’t say, but Root turned around. “Yes,” she lied. Gunshots were sure to have alerted someone, she decided, but in this neighborhood, it really was a toss of a coin. Still, she didn’t care; fate would decide what would happen here, and not her.

 

 _Emergency services have been notified_ , the Machine confirmed as Sameen used a slim jack to steal them a new car. Quiet beside her, Root silently drowned in anger, as if she hadn’t wanted the Machine to call the police. As if she had hoped the number would die – and she wondered what that made her. A monster, maybe. Someone not as evolved as the Machine would’ve thought; not as worthy as Sameen would believe her to be.

 

Root shivered at the thought.

 

As they drove away in the night, they heard sirens invading the empty streets, and only then Sameen seemed to relax, but Root didn’t lose the tension in her shoulders, stiff and mute.

 

She barely glanced at the rear view mirror as they left behind a bleeding man she had never met before today. A man she had seen only on photographs, in the shaking hands of her mother – some stranger she had grown to call her father.


	2. November

It was the first time Root hesitated on knocking at Sameen’s door in a very long time. She thought about letting herself in, but it felt wrong, somehow. Instead she just stood there, silent, listening to the muffled noises coming from the other apartments around Sameen’s – classical music, people holding a loud conversation, a baby crying. There was no indication that Sameen was home, but then again there never had been.

 

As soon as Root had landed in New York, the Machine had given her Sameen’s location. It was soothing to hear them, those GPS coordinates that Root had dutifully memorised, a series of numbers she had repeated to herself like a prayer once. It seemed sometimes like it was the only place on Earth she kept going back to, her center of gravity, in a way.

 

At the end of the corridor, one of Sameen’s neighbors unlocked their door, eyeing down Root like she was an intruder and she faked a smile, hoping it would deter them from asking questions. Under their unrelenting gaze she forced herself to knock – pretending she had been waiting for Sameen a while she rolled her eyes, and that seemed to convince the man, who entered his apartment without a word.

 

Now that she truly waited for an answer, Root could feel her heart pumping wild, thinking back to why it had taken her so long to indicate to Sameen that she was there; why she had spent so long staring at a closed door and repeating the same series of numbers all over again.

 

She hadn’t seen Sameen since that night in Lancaster, that night where Root watched her father bleeding on the asphalt and chose to leave him there. It seemed to her that everywhere she went now, she carried that heavy silence that had started in the car on the way back to New York. Sameen had been the one driving through the night, faster than she should have, but that time Sameen hadn’t shot worried glances at Root. Her knuckles had been whitening around the wheel and her jaw was tensed, and Root hadn’t known what to say.

 

For once she had wished, that night, that Sameen would push; that she would have asked questions and demanded answers, that she would have insisted to know what was happening with Root – but that wasn’t something Sameen did, not really. Or at least, not when she was as angry as she was that night, a ticking time-bomb. Now that she thought of if, Root wished she had angered Sameen more that night; wished Sameen would get as furious and desperate as that night in Prague, a fire blazing against Root’s skin, dangerously burning close.

 

The locks on the door clicked open and it brought some comforting warmth to Root’s chest, unexpectedly making her feel safe and welcome – even though she knew she wasn’t, not really. She wondered for a second how it was possible for her to want both the burn and the soothing. How she could love watching Sameen with Bear, gentle and joyful, and with the boys – Harold, John and Lionel – kidding and caring; protective and warm in ways Root could never be.

 

But then again Root had first fallen for a killer; an efficient assassin who could snap her neck in one movement and have no feelings about it, and sometimes Root wished she was still Veronica, and that Sameen was still hot on her trail.

 

It wasn’t a killer behind the door that welcomed Root; in her t-shirt and her boxers, Sameen looked like any normal person, watching TV on a Thursday night because they had a long day at work. Sameen didn’t look surprised to see her, despite the two weeks that had passed by since the last time Root had seen her.

 

“Broncos are going to win 35 to 21,” Root smiled, leaning against the door frame. With her coat still on she felt odd to be eyeing Sameen, and gazed inside the apartment to see the TV, game still going.

 

Sameen frowned. “Thanks for that,” she moved to the side, allowing Root in, the remote still in hand. She turned off the television, knowing the Machine’s predictions were usually right anyway.

 

“You look cheerful,” Sameen spoke like it was a reproach, but Root didn’t lose her smile.

 

“Always happy to see you too,” Root smirked, closing the door behind her before she took off her scarf and then undid the buttons of her coat.

 

Before Root could drop them on a nearby chair Sameen grabbed the coat and the scarf from her hand, hanging them beside the door with a short sigh. It was just one other thing Root wasn’t really good at – remembering the domestic details of what Sameen wanted her to do, or not to do. Placing dirty dishes in the sink; not leaving clothes lying around. It seemed to her like everything had a place at Sameen’s, but Root.

 

“Do you have to ruin the game every time?” Sameen asked, heading for the kitchen, and Root dutifully followed her.

 

“I thought I’d save you the trouble of watching it,” Root smirked, slowly growing more comfortable as a grumpy Sameen filled a glass with water.

 

Sameen shoved the glass into Root’s hands, glaring. Root sighed. “You’re still doing this?”

 

Sameen didn’t answer; she walked past her and returned to the living room, and Root wondered if she could just empty the glass right back into the sink, but didn’t think Sameen would appreciate that. Ever since that hot summer day where Root had almost fainted from dehydration while on a mission, Sameen made a point of having her drink water all the time. She used to make her swallow at least one glass every time Root came by, but had stopped after a month. Still when Sameen was worried about something she would start doing it again, and it annoyed Root more than anything.

 

That evening, Root didn’t want Sameen to push; she didn’t want her to ask questions, to try and get to know Root, to understand what was going on. Why she had acted so weird in Lancaster. She felt anger blazing inside just at the thought of talking about it.

 

She emptied the glass in the sink.

 

Root returned to the living room to find Sameen sitting on the couch, waiting for her, but Root didn’t want to hear what Sameen wanted to say. She walked up to the window and looked outside instead, New York’s lights almost arrogant against the smooth surface of the night’s sky.

 

“I did a background check when I came back here,” Sameen grunted, eyes boring into Root’s back. Root repeated the coordinates of Sameen’s apartment in her head, the repetition familiar and comforting, ignoring what Sameen was about to say aloud and how much she couldn’t hear it. She wished for the heavy silence again, prayed for it.

 

Root didn’t reply anything; down in the street a car nearly ran over a woman with groceries and Root frowned, picturing what would have happened if that stranger had been hit – the loud screaming of the sirens, the curious commotion outside. She longed for a similar distraction, for anything that could take her mind of this moment, but in her implant the Machine was quiet. The silence in Sameen’s apartment was defeaning and Root wondered how anyone could breathe with that little noise.

 

“I know that number was from Bishop,” Sameen continued. She allowed another silence there, as if hoping that Root would fill it, and when she didn’t, Sameen insisted. “Small town, that place.”

 

Root flinched, but her anger had returned at the name – a name she didn’t want in Sameen’s mouth. It had nothing to do with the playful way Sameen called her Groves sometimes; Sameen said _Bishop_ like it meant something, and Root didn’t know what exactly but she didn’t want to find out either. She didn’t want to hear what Sameen thought of that small town that Root had ran from as soon as she could.

 

“That man was your father, wasn’t he?” Shaw insisted, but Root kept her eyes out the window, not giving her the satisfaction of acknowledging her.

 

Root cleared her throat. “I don’t have a father,” she remembered saying that so many times, all her life really. On forms, at school, everywhere; _I don’t have a father_. Not _I don’t know him_ , not _he’s gone_. To Root there was no one in her family but her mother; no one that mattered but the two of them, as her mom told her so many times.

 

“Everyone has a father,” Sameen answered as she joined Root by the window, but Root didn’t spare her a look.

 

“I don’t,” she replied, and Sameen sighed.

 

There was an awkward silence during which Root thought of leaving, but she didn’t know where she would go. All of these times she had run out of Sameen’s apartment without caring where she would end up, and yet today she desperately needed to leave, but didn’t know how. It was as if she had forgotten how to do something as common as riding a bicycle or drawing air, something no one would ever forget, and she wondered if Sameen could see that. Could know what she was thinking.

 

She guessed even Sameen couldn’t.

 

“Did the Machine tell you?”

 

To Root, that was the worst part of that night; that betrayal.

 

The Machine hadn’t warned her – just like she hadn’t told Root about her role in Cyrus Wells’ life. She had been teaching her a lesson then, but this time Root didn’t feel like being obedient. Root felt like running out of class and never coming back, and wondered why so many of her thoughts came back to childhood, to her being scared and alone.

 

She wasn’t alone now. “Root, did you know?” Sameen insisted.

 

“No,” her voice was cold and crisp. “No She didn’t tell me.”

 

Root moved towards the door, grabbing her coat.

 

“Where are you going?” Sameen asked – that was something she never did. Sameen never asked for Root to stay anymore, and for that Root was grateful. She stepped forward.

 

“What do you want, Shaw?” she snapped angrily.

 

Sameen blinked. “Nevermind.”

 

Root felt her heart hurt in her chest, aching like she was about to pass out. She swallowed hard.

 

“What, do you want to be praised for your great detective work?” Root continued, furious. “Or do you want to talk feelings?” She felt the fire blazing inside, worsening with every word, and Sameen just stood there, still and quiet. “Do you want to hold my hand while we talk about how hard it is to grow up without a father?”

 

Sameen didn’t say anything; she frowned, and that was it.

 

Root laughed bitterly. “You want to know more about me, Sameen? Is that it?” the words poured out of her like blood from a stomach wound and she barely stopped for air. “It wasn’t hard, growing up without him,” she slipped on her coat, fussing with the buttons. “It just made it that much easier to leave.”

 

She opened the door and left, barely hearing the sound of her footsteps over the one of her heart beating wild, and it wasn’t until she had reached the cold air of the street that she realised she had forgotten her scarf up there.

 

 

[...]

 

 

It was a shady bar but Root didn’t really care. She asked for two shots of vodka and eyed down the barman when his upper lip curled up in distaste. She swallowed them both one after the other, relishing in the burning down her throat, her eyes watering slightly. The sting was nothing like how she had felt at Shaw’s apartment – she didn’t want to think of that.

 

“Hey, let me buy you a drink?” a man slipped on the stool beside her, and Root rolled her eyes. “Not keen on company?”

 

He laughed it off and bought two drinks anyway, one for himself, and the other he slid down the bar towards Root. She glared at the cocktail and then at him.

 

“This doesn’t mean I have to talk to you,” she answered, her fingers toying with the glass, making the alcohol swirl. She waited a few seconds before she sipped it.

 

“Sounds fair,” the man answered, his joyous smile trying to contaminate Root, and failing. “You just seem like you’re having a rough day, is all.”

 

Root shrugged, averting her eyes towards her glass.

 

“I know a bit about rough days,” he continued, pulling his stool closer to Root. She winced at his perfume, annoyed. “But you know, you’d look prettier if you’d smile.”

 

Root laughed at that, turning to look at him. “Maybe I don’t care about looking pretty.”

 

She heard it in her voice; the slur, the slowed-down inclination. Too much alcohol on an empty stomach, she remembered, and she never could hold her liquor. Yet she couldn’t stay away from it these days; it soothed the fire inside, made it easier to breathe. She called the barman for another shot even though she still hadn’t finished the drink in front of her.

 

“Trying to drown something?” the man insisted. “Had a fight with the boyfriend?”

 

Root swallowed the rest of her drink, but it did nothing to calm down her annoyance with the stranger.

 

“Girlfriend, actually,” she looked at him defiantly, and his face changed. She tried not to be happy about it – Sameen wasn’t her girlfriend, not really; all she wanted was to shock him. _To pick up a fight_ , she thought, and somehow the idea was intriguing.

 

“You don’t look like it,” he said, and Root felt her anger rising.

 

“Look like what?” she knew she was threading in dangerous waters, knew she was definitely looking for a reason to punch him now. She hoped he was going to say the wrong thing and knew the Machine and Shaw wouldn’t like that very much but she didn’t care about either of them. Her heart pumped her blood more rapidly and she closed her fist, waiting.

 

The man just laughed nervously. “No, you’re kidding me, right?”

 

Root swallowed the shooter of vodka the barman had just brought up and immediately asked for another. The barman made a face and she pulled out a twenty, shutting him up.

 

“There’s no way you’re into chicks,” the guy insisted, sipping his drink and eyeing her down. “You’re saying that just to get rid of me.”

 

Root breathed down deeply, the alcohol clouding her thoughts. “There are many, many other ways to get rid of you,” she replied, laughing as she pictured of how the old her would have dealt with him. How she could have had him killed within fifteen minutes, without a trace. Still, she could feel her voice shaking, the bar getting a bit fuzzy when she stepped back to her feet. She swallowed one last shooter, forcing herself to forget her wish for violence.

 

“Bitch,” the guy whispered as Root made her way to the door, and she turned around.

 

“What did you call me?” she asked, although she had heard all too well.

 

The guy complained loudly, “I bought you a drink.”

 

Root walked over. “And then you called me a bitch,” she repeated angrily, and he turned around.

 

“I guess that makes us even,” he flashed an annoyed smile.

 

Root smiled too, now, but he didn’t look worried. “No,” she punched him hard enough that he fell down his stool. “ _That_ makes us even.”

 

Maybe because of the alcohol, or because she hadn’t been in a fight for a while, but Root hadn’t planned on him returning to his feet so fast, and neither on him actually hitting her. She blocked the third punch, but knew the first one had cracked her lip and the second was going to give her quite the shiner. The barman jumped over the bar one second too late; Root had already pulled out her taser and got the man down.

 

Root barely spared him and the barman a look, the mix of adrenaline and alcohol making her sick. She walked towards the door again, feeling all eyes on her.

 

“Aren’t you gonna press charges?” she heard the man ask behind her, and she didn’t bother answering.

 

A pouring rain welcomed her out of the bar, but Root didn’t take a taxi. Instead she walked, tasting her own blood on her lip, ignoring the eyes of the people sharing the sidewalk, their glances lingering on the cheek that swelled up. She thought of putting ice on it and started laughing, but she didn’t know why. Everything seemed a bit blurry and found her way back to Sameen’s apartment, head spinning.

 

This time she didn’t hesitate to knock on Sameen’s door, restless until the door finally opened.

 

“I forgot my scarf,” Root spoke in a rush when Sameen appeared before her.

 

Sameen raised her eyebrows, moving to the side to allow Root in for the second time that night.

 

“What happened to you?” she asked like a reproach. Root ignored it, looking at the darkened apartment, the TV back on. “You’re drunk.”

 

“You’re observant,” Root curled her lips into smile. “I like that about you.”

 

Sameen crossed her arms in front of her chest, glaring. “You didn’t like it earlier,” she commented angrily.

 

Root flashed an apologetic smile, the remnants of vodka making her blink. “I was angry.”

 

Sameen returned to her couch, unfazed. “Noticed that.”

 

“See? Very observant,” Root rolled the syllables on her tongue almost playfully, biting on her lower lip and gasping when it hurt more than it should’ve. She remembered the bar and the fight, smiling absently as if she had a secret she wouldn’t share; Sameen didn’t seem interested anyway. Root started undoing the buttons of her coat, shivering when her wet hair fell down her shoulders. She let it pool on the floor beneath her, careless. “What do you observe now?”

 

Sameen sighed. “What happened to your face?”

 

The pain in her cheek returned suddenly, as if she just needed the remembrance. Her skin flared up and she brought a cold finger to her lip.

 

“Did you get into a bar fight?” Sameen asked, sounding almost amused, if it wasn’t for all that worry and annoyance that seemingly took up all the space around her.

 

Root smiled, pulling her sweater above her head as she walked towards the couch. With one hand she undid her bra, letting it fall to the ground before she straddled Sameen’s lap.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Root purred, placing a kiss at the end of Sameen’s jaw. “You smell nice,” she whispered in her ear, breathing in deeply and humming in approval.

 

“Wish I could say the same,” Sameen replied, yet her hands had settled on Root’s back, warm and familiar.

 

Root laughed before she bit the skin lightly. “I could take a shower, if you want,” she suggested, although her hands had already pulled up Sameen’s t-shirt, and she smirked when she found she wasn’t wearing a bra.

 

“Your hands are cold,” Sameen protested when Root started teasing her nipples, and Root stopped sucking at her neck.

 

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer. Sameen so rarely refused to have her, no matter when or where they were.

 

Sameen groaned, her fingers quickly undoing Root’s belt. As Sameen kissed her roughly, the pain in Root’s lips brought tears to her eyes and she gasped, feeling the hurt running from her mouth to the back of her throat.

 

“You should put ice on that,” Sameen said as she pulled back with a worried frown, and Root pouted.

 

“Later,” she leaned in, but Sameen pushed her to the side, rising from her seat.

 

Root heard her fuss in the kitchen and returned with an ice cube and a washcloth. She offered them both to Root, sitting down on the couch beside her and groaning when Root refused them. Instead, Root returned to sit on her lap, grinding on Sameen’s thighs. She kissed Sameen again, hissing from the pain, but this time when Sameen pulled apart she delicately held the ice cube up on Root’s lip.

 

The cold was a new pain in itself, as if burning the skin, yet soothing the tissue underneath and Root closed her eyes, revelling in the sensation.

 

“See?” Sameen smirked. “It helps.”

 

Root moaned lightly. “Yes, it does.”

 

She opened her eyes again, seeing her own arousal echoed in Sameen’s and she leaned in again, kissing her more harshly as she guided Sameen’s hand towards her chest, pressing the ice cube between her two breasts, the cold almost burning. Sameen’s other hand, so much warmer by contrast, lifted to grab her neck, fingernails digging into Root’s skin.

 

Root’s free hand struggled to undo her own belt, which only granted her a laugh.

 

“Maybe you’re too drunk for this,” Sameen joked, and Root pressed her hand against Sameen’s labia, hot even through the fabric, and Root smirked.

 

“Does it matter?” she pressed harder, her thumb scraping Sameen’s inner thigh.

 

Sameen didn’t answer; instead she lowered her hand to tease a nipple, and Root leaned into the touch, smiling. The melting ice cube dropped cold little tears down her stomach and she shivered, freezing. When Sameen pulled her hand away from Root’s skin, Root stood up, getting rid of the rest of her clothes while Sameen took off her t-shirt, throwing it away carelessly. Root licked her lips absently before she returned to her position over Sameen, who grabbed her by the waist and brought her to lie down on the couch instead. Hovering above Root, Sameen placed kisses and bites along Root’s collarbone, dragging the ice cube around Root’s chest slowly and Root moaned in approval, feeling Sameen’s curls teasing her skin.

 

When Sameen ran the cube down on her inner thigh Root hissed, the burn almost soothing, quieting down everything else. She forgot how patient and soft Sameen’s hands were, how she wanted them angry and hurting; she focused on the burn and felt like she could finally breathe again.

 

Sameen moved to get rid of the ice cube on the living room table, but Root immediately grabbed her wrist. She held her palm opened and smiled; “may I?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Sameen placed the cube in Root’s palm before she returned between Root’s legs, tongue darting against her heated skin. Root closed her fist around the ice cube, feeling it melt even more, the burn seemingly spreading through her bones. Her whole hand felt numb at first, and then her wrist, until it ran up her arm and created a delicious tension in her neck, hurting and numbing all the same.

 

She could feel Sameen’s breath against her, her lips closing on her clit and then the tip of the tongue running down and she gasped, her other hand fisting Sameen’s hair, holding her in place. Root grinded against her, her hips digging into the fabric of the couch as she struggled to feel Sameen more. When Sameen’s fingers finally curled up inside her, Root felt like the tension slowly leaving her, like she was becoming nothing but a bundle of muscles and nerves made to shiver with arousal and she let that sink in. She allowed herself to be nothing other than this body that revelled in hurt and pleasure, her brain overwhelmed with mixed signals until she finally came, Sameen’s name falling out of her lips.

 

Sameen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, crawling up the couch. She grabbed what was left of the ice cube in Root’s hand; nothing more than a little cylinder of ice, and yet she held it up to Root’s lip gently, soothing the cut.

 

Root fell asleep there, waking up the next morning under a blanket, the apartment empty, silent once again.


	3. December

Heavy footsteps coming from the ceiling woke her up; although Sameen’s neighbor usually walked lightly, today it sounded like her heels were purposefully hitting the floor with all her strength and Root winced when she heard the sound of a loud vacuum cleaner just above her head. She opened her eyes to blinding light and closed them immediately, regretting it as it sent a bolt of pain through her head. She swallowed what little she could, feeling her mouth dry and strangely pasty.

 

When she tried to hide further into the blankets, Root’s stomach turned suddenly, a pinch of hurt that lifted her from the bed in one movement before she paced as fast as she could towards the bathroom. Having trouble keeping balance, Root leaned on the wall with one hand, praying that she would get there in time. She barely heard the running water of the shower when she reached for the toilet, opening the lid urgently before she retched. Her throat burned angrily and her irritated eyes were blurred, filled with tears. She felt so very weak and exhausted as she flushed the toilet with trembling fingers and leaned back against the wall.

 

“Fuck Root,” Sameen protested from the shower, pushing the curtains open on one side. Hair still filled with shampoo, she dodged the icy water, pissed. The sight would have been funny if Root didn’t feel so sick, her stomach hurting like she had swallowed barb wires. “You couldn’t wait?”

 

Root only shook her head, too tired to reply. She ran a hand through her hair, pulling the curls to release the pressure on her head, and curled up in a tight knot, limbs pressed against her chest. She listened absently as Sameen returned under the running water, yet through the curtains Root couldn’t see anything – not like Root hadn’t seen Sameen a thousand times already, but she didn’t mind looking at her a thousand more. Although today, Root didn’t think she could move again without throwing up, and no matter how much she wanted to, she knew she wouldn’t be able to join Sameen in the shower.

 

Every little noise pounded against her head painfully, as if trying to keep Root from surrendering to the exhaustion that made her want to crawl back into bed.

 

The shower finally stopped running, and Root forced a smile when Sameen pulled open the curtains. She ran her eyes over the familiar curves of Sameen’s body, dripping wet, wondering if there was any inch of her skin she hadn’t already licked and bit. Sameen held up her gaze, daring, but Root didn’t have the strength to do anything about it, and Sameen groaned. She grabbed a towel and dried her hair roughly, barely sparing Root another glance.

 

“If you can’t keep it down, maybe you shouldn’t drink,” Sameen spoke coldly, looking at herself in the blurred mirror, as if trying to keep her eyes away from the mess of limbs that was Root. She started drying her shoulders and arms roughly, the fabric reddening the skin here and there.

 

“I’m just tired,” Root argued, closing her eyes and burying her head into her hands. Yet that only sent another wave of nausea crashing through her chest and she quickly kneeled in front of the toilet before she threw up again. This time it seemed she had only bile left, but Root didn’t know if that was better or worse, because she kept choking up and it seemed like she wouldn’t be able to stop.

 

Sameen sighed loudly. “Take a breath,” she instructed with a slightly warmer voice and Root pulled back from the toilet, unwillingly shedding a tear as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t cry in my bathroom at eight in the morning.”

 

Sameen left the room then, closing the light behind her and Root closed her eyes again, the sudden quietness making it a bit easier to breathe. She flushed the toilet blindly and settled on counting to fifty before she tried to get up, but kept losing the count. When she finally returned to her feet, holding onto the wall and then the sink, she found her muscles aching from fatigue and rusty, as if her articulations argued with every movement.

 

In the blurred mirror Root could barely see herself, and somehow that was comforting. She guessed she probably looked like shit, but didn’t ponder as to why – she vaguely remembered having a drink with Sameen and the boys, but not how she had ended up in Sameen’s bed in her underwear.

 

Not for the first time, Root decided it wasn’t worth finding out, and she threw cold water on her face to snap herself awake before she grabbed her toothbrush and cleaned out the disgusting acid taste in her mouth. The fact that she had a toothbrush at Sameen’s to begin with was something she didn’t want to dwell on; it made her uneasy, reminded her of that wild fire in her chest, when Sameen looked at her with concerned eyes.

 

Root was still brushing her teeth when Sameen returned, also wearing only underwear, and her hair still wet from the shower. Root thought of many things to say, flirty innuendos and vague compliments, but couldn’t manage to.

 

“Are you going to be there all day?” Sameen complained, leaning against the doorframe.

 

Spitting the toothpaste in the sink, Root struggled with nausea once again. “I’m almost done,” she replied with a raspy voice, her throat hurting as if the words could cut. “Give me a minute.”

 

Sameen lifted her eyebrows, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “You’ve had fifteen already.”

 

Root didn’t think it had been that long, but then again she could have fallen asleep in there; she really didn’t know. In her implant the Machine confirmed the time, and that Root had to be across town in one hour.

 

Leaving the comfortable darkness of the bathroom, Root returned to Sameen’s bedroom with a surer foot, although her hands were still trembling slightly. A thought flashed in her mind; that maybe it would help if she just had another drink. It was some advice she had often heard, growing up; that the best way to get through a hangover fast was to have another beer. She wondered if that would work on her as well as it worked on her mother back then.

 

“Care to give me a lift?” Root asked when Sameen joined her.

 

Rapidly slipping on a pair of black pants, Sameen sighed. “Don’t you know how to drive yourself?”

 

The unspoken refusal made her heart skip a beat, and Root noticed she had put her sweater on backwards. “Would you trust me to be driving right now?” she joked, but Sameen didn’t laugh.

 

“No, but I wouldn’t trust you with a gun either and I’m sure wherever you’re going, you’ll have one on you,” she grunted, buttoning her blouse and arranging the collar with a serious look.

 

Root laughed it off, but it brought back the nausea and she felt her skin sweating uncomfortably, her body trying to rid itself of last night’s alcohol.

 

Sameen spared her a glance. “Fine,” she sighed, “but I’m picking up some breakfast on the way.”

 

The thought of food only made it harder not to throw up again, but Root focused on her breathing and she managed not to. She didn’t think she could go through a car ride across town with the smell of coffee and bagels, or anything else Sameen could be having, but Root didn’t say anything against it. Her pale complexion unwillingly informed Sameen of her trouble, and Sameen rolled her eyes.

 

“Seriously?” she shook her head with a disapproving look. “You really have to stop drinking, this is ridiculous.”

 

Something about the way Sameen had spoken unsettled Root; it was the worry lurking behind the words, the open criticism somehow filled with concern and it made Root feel like she was nothing but a problem to solve, a weight on Sameen’s shoulders. Annoyed, she left the bedroom with a newfound resolve, ignoring her headache and her exhaustion and darting towards the door.

 

“It’s fine, I’ll take a taxi,” she muttered, slipping on her coat and buttoning it up under Sameen’s glare. Root felt Sameen’s eyes burning through her clothes and she struggled with her scarf, suddenly anxious to leave, as if she was running from something.

 

“I said I’ll drive you,” Sameen repeated, arms crossed. Root spared her a look, noticing the impatience and anger mixing with discomfort and she longed for a drink again, just to forget about those eyes.

 

Root faked another smile. “And I said I’ll take a taxi.”

 

She was out the door before Sameen could reply anything.

 

 

[...]

 

 

“Shaw,” Root insisted, tugging on her vest and urging Sameen to sit closer on the booth, “do you think I’m a bad person?”

 

Sameen frowned. It wasn’t like Root to ask questions like that, but Root hadn’t been acting like herself lately and Sameen didn’t know what to do with that. She looked at her pint of beer, quietly counting how many shots and drinks Root had drank in the last few hours, wondering if she should cut her off. Beside her Root was so very warm, cheeks flushed and eyes widening, and Sameen had to admit she didn’t mind the view all that much.

 

“Do you think you’re a bad person?” Sameen returned the question, unsure of what Root wanted to know exactly. These days it seemed like no matter what Sameen did, Root got angry anyway, and Sameen thought it had something to do with that number about three months ago, a shady con man who had turned out to be Root’s father, but Sameen couldn’t ask about that. The two of them, they didn’t talk much since Prague; they fucked and worked things out like that, but it seemed like maybe it wasn’t enough for Root. As if she wasn’t enough for Root, and Sameen just didn’t know how to care for her anymore.

 

“Yes,” Root whispered with a smile, although her eyes filled with water.

 

There were many reasons for Sameen to stop this _thing_ with Root, and if she had the good sense of going back to random, anonymous sex with strangers Sameen thought she could find some peace again. It certainly wouldn’t be as messy and tiring as _this_ was, but the more she stared at Root, the less Sameen wanted it to stop. There was this constant pull inside her, this connection with Root that Sameen didn’t have with others. It always seemed like Root knew exactly what Sameen needed, even when she wasn’t sure of it herself. She just wished she could do the same for Root.

 

“I don’t think you are,” Sameen retorted, taking a long sip from her beer, ignoring Root’s unwavering stare, digging holes in her cheek.

 

“I am a bad person,” Root’s smile turned sad and she averted her eyes. “Do you think you are?”

 

If there was one thing Sameen had always been certain of, it was that. “Yes.”

 

Root bit down her lip with something like anticipation, even though her eyes were still sad and angry. She swallowed the rest of her drink and looked at Sameen with a new kind of glow.

 

“Take me home,” she asked with a low voice, clearly aroused.

 

“Now?” Sameen questioned, surprised even though they had been sitting in this booth for hours, and although Root looked like she could barely stand anymore. _So much for keeping her from drinking too much_ , Sameen thought, remembering why she had agreed to go out with Root in the first place. She hadn’t noticed the drinks and shooters piling up on the table, and with Root’s weak constitution, Sameen worried for a minute that they had long passed the point of safe consumption.

 

“Yes, take me home now,” she repeated, and Sameen took a note of how Root blinked so slowly, how she leaned into Sameen a bit too much, how she seemed to have trouble speaking.

 

It bothered Sameen immensely, all of a sudden, as she recounted the many times Root had showed up drunk on her doorstep within the past few months. “You didn’t drink before,” Sameen remarked aloud without really thinking, and Root frowned.

 

“Don’t do this, Shaw,” Root warned her, but it was too late; the question was already there.

 

“Why do you drink so much?” Sameen had drank all evening too, but more reasonably, switching with water now and then, whereas Root had swallowed shooter after shooter like death was around the corner – and maybe it was, Sameen realised, because she hadn’t seen Root this exhausted and depressed since Samaritan.

 

Root swallowed hard. “Fuck you,” she simply said, slipping out of the booth. In a matter of seconds she was already out the door and it took Sameen a moment to realise that she hadn’t paid the tab, that their coats were still at the coat check, and that there was a snowstorm outside.

 

Sameen rushed to the bar to pay, hoping Root would at least return for her coat. When she grabbed the both of them from the coat check she started worrying, trying to concentrate on what Root had been wearing – that tight blue dress that Sameen liked. She frowned when she reached the outside, no Root in sight, the street dark and quiet as snow settled down quietly. The wind had calmed down, but the night was still freezing.

 

She tried Root’s cell phone, only to hear the ringtone coming from the coat she had in her hand. Sameen resolved to walking around in the streets of that neighborhood, searching for Root aimlessly, hoping to find her despite the anger boiling inside. She pictured what she would do once she found her; knock her out or yell some more, or even fuck her, as if that could breathe some sense back into her. Cheeks and thighs burning from the cold, Sameen finally gave up after an hour, taking a cab home, somewhat hopeful that she would find Root there.

 

When Sameen reached her apartment she found Root curled up against the wall just beside her door, a mess of limbs shivering absently. She noticed Root was asleep regardless of where she was, blue dress darkened where the snow had melted on her, her chest discreetly moving up and down. Both relief and anger flooded through her veins at the sight, but Sameen didn’t know what to do with that. Instead of saying anything, she simply unlocked her door, the wrestling of the keys waking up Root in the process, yet Sameen refused to acknowledge her.

 

Root stood up then, face contorted in pain, and followed Sameen inside without a word. Once Sameen had closed the door behind her Root lifted a hand to cup her cheek, fingers so very cold and Sameen winced before she stepped aside. She thought again of her search for Root, of how she had pictured punching and yelling and fucking, but now that Root stood before her Sameen only felt empty and exhausted. She reached for a closet and grabbed a blanket, unceremoniously throwing it at Root.

 

“You can have the couch,” she offered coldly, although a part of her wanted to check for signs of hypothermia, if Root had frostbites; if she was okay. Yet Sameen didn’t, feeling her anger dangerously bursting inside every time she looked at Root.

 

When Root joined Sameen in her bed a few hours later, still impossibly cold, Sameen allowed her to cuddle against her, transferring her heat onto Root. Sameen sighed, Root’s curls running down her neck, and found herself filled with a strange sensation, something constricting her chest, an odd discomfort she rarely felt. She placed a kiss on Root’s forehead, as if trying to push that thought away, in the back of her mind; that she was helpless.

 

“You have to stop this, Root,” Sameen murmured against her frozen skin.

 

Root pressed herself against Sameen, the tip of her nose running down Sameen’s jawbone, and she hummed in approval quietly, falling asleep. Somehow, Sameen knew she would forget before morning.

 

She always did.

 

[...]

 

 

It was the Christmas lights that bothered Root the most during holiday season. The carols she could tune out, and most decorations just made her cringe, but the Christmas lights she found beautiful in a way that she couldn’t ignore. They reminded her all too well of how much she loved them as a kid, how warm and safe they made her feel.

 

Come December she would always install those same lights in front of her house, just like others families down the street would, and for a whole month she would feel almost normal. It made it just a bit easier to ignore the curious eyes when she went grocery shopping, awkward with her tiny hands holding onto the plastic bags, barely strong enough for the beer case. All year long they stared, overtly passing comments as if she couldn’t hear – _the Groves’ kid_ they called her and for eleven months every year it made her wince, but in December she walked with her head just a bit higher, and dared them to say anything.

 

For years it had been her favorite month, and even though her mother couldn’t afford a tree Root – Samantha, at the time – would draw one and stick it to the wall beside her bed. She kept that tradition until Hanna had told her that it wasn’t a _real_ Christmas tree, that she was weird to think it was, and Root had tore it apart later that night, putting an end to the tree, and the Christmas lights. Her mother had said the next morning that it was about time she started acting her age, and Root – _Samantha_ – had wondered aloud if all eight-year-olds made supper, washed the dishes, cleaned up messes around the house and then gathered the empty beer bottles, every day before they could sit down and do their homework.

 

Root had been granted quite a slap in return. She had never mentioned it again.

 

Years later, standing in the cold in front of a giant decorated tree in Central Park, Root stared at the Christmas lights until they blurred, lifting her flask in honor of that dead mother. How easily she had followed her footsteps, Root thought bitterly, the alcohol warming up her throat and stomach as she left the crowd and headed towards the nearest subway station.

 

On the way Root thought of that father she never had, a con man who had tricked his way into her mother’s bed all while emptying her bank account, a petty thief who had left Bishop with her money and her heart, leaving Root behind as a sour parting gift. Root took a few more sips, the city streets slowly turning to a blur, and yet it did nothing to erase those Christmas lights around every corner, shining brightly as if mocking.

 

When she finally reached the station, Root rushed down the stairs as fast as she could, holding onto the ramp tightly, having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. Root thought of how she had so rapidly turned into the worst of both her parents, following her genes perfectly, and of how wrong the Machine was about faulty codes; they had a way of coming back, like they could never truly be rewritten. Besides, no matter how advanced the software could get, a faulty hardware would never properly run it. She took another sip.

 

There was nothing Root could do against her programming – not even the Machine could stop fate.

 

Root hid her flask into the inner pocket of her coat before she passed the tourniquets, blinking confusedly until the Machine told her which way to go. In her mind the New York City map twisted and changed, impossible to follow and she focused instead on the coordinates of Sameen’s building, repeating the numbers like a mantra.

 

Around her, the subway was crowded with friends having a laugh, couples leaning into each other and people bearing gifts. Root hadn’t bought Sameen anything, just like she didn’t expect a present either, but as she walked towards Sameen’s apartment, barely noticing the sharp cold, Root wondered if she should have. The thought made her feel uneasy; somehow she found herself anxious about seeing Sameen in this time of year, as if it meant something more.

 

She reached Sameen’s street with a nervous bump in her throat, wondering if she should just find another place to crash, but her exhaustion weighted too heavily on her shoulders. Root leaned against the wall of Sameen’s building for a moment, closing her eyes as she felt a shroud of darkness falling on her. In her implant the Machine repeated Sameen’s address, snapping Root back to attention, and she continued walking, her one good hand helping her to keep her balance by clinging on the wall’s rough surface.

 

There weren’t any decorations on Sameen’s door and Root took it as a good sign.

 

Sameen opened the door with wearied eyes, took one look at Root before she sighed. “You’re drunk,” she stated, yet allowed Root to enter.

 

Root smiled, offering Sameen her flask. “It’s the Christmas spirit,” she cheered with a slurred voice, and Sameen frowned.

 

“I think you’ve had enough for the both of us,” Sameen replied, flashing an annoyed smile before she closed the door behind Root.

 

Rapidly warming up, Root tried undoing her coat, but using only her left arm made things complicated. She fussed with the buttons, blinking as they all seemed too large for their buttonhole and feeling more and more ridiculous. Instead of returning to her couch Sameen came closer, a worried expression as she grabbed Root’s empty right sleeve.

 

“What happened to your arm?” she asked, pushing away Root’s hands and unbuttoning her coat in her stead. Root leaned into her, closing her eyes as if trying to smell Sameen’s perfume even more.

 

“I broke it,” she replied earnestly, opening her eyes again to smile at Sameen before she drank another mouthful. It didn’t make her wince anymore, and barely even burned on the way down, but she found herself blinking nonetheless, the heat suddenly making her knees weak.

 

Sameen didn’t look happy about that. “So you’re on pain meds?”

 

“Maybe,” Root grinned, hearing the sound of the pills in her pocket as Sameen pulled out the bottle. Root wanted to make a joke about the alias she had used for the prescription, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Just another name to add to her list of people she would never be, she thought, and that made her laugh, but when she did, her eyes watered. Before she could have another sip, Sameen took the flask from her.

 

“Well then you’ve had more than enough,” Sameen decided, taking another look at the bottle of pills.

 

“That’s not very Christmas-y, Shaw,” Root complained, leaning against the wall. Somehow she felt like the room was spinning, or more accurately like the floor wasn’t steady and she knew something was wrong, very wrong, but she didn’t want Sameen to know. She felt panic inside as she tried to make herself scarce, worried of what Sameen would say or do.

 

Sameen didn’t say anything. She grabbed Root by the wrist and forcefully pulled her towards the bathroom, and Root struggled to follow, her footing unsure.

 

“Throw up,” she ordered, flicking on the lights before pouring what little remained of Root’s alcohol down the drain.

 

“What?” Root frowned. In her chest her heart was beating wildly and she had difficulty concentrating on anything else. Even breathing seemed too hard and she leaned on the doorframe, feeling like she would be a whole lot better if she could just sleep – and if Sameen’s apartment wasn’t so unbearably hot.

 

Sameen stared at her, worried. “You have to throw up before you pass out,” she suggested, but Root laughed it off.

 

“I’m not going to pass out,” she retorted, but it sounded like her voice wasn’t hers, or that it was coming from somewhere far away. The room turned suddenly darker than it was before, and she felt so very tired.

 

“Root,” Sameen insisted, and she moved closer but Root wasn’t sure that it was Sameen’s arms that wrapped themselves tight around her waist, and she protested against the hands resting on her hips. “Fuck.”

 

The fatigue won for a moment and Root closed her eyes, heavy and tired, and she breathed out as she blissfully let go. A heavy darkness overcame her then and she felt at peace for once, completely at peace.

 

She woke up a few hours later in Sameen’s bed, confused and dizzy. Her head hurt, but not as much as her throat, which burned and itched when she swallowed. She lifted her good hand to her mouth, finding a cut on her lip and bruises on her chest and she blinked, desperately trying to understand what had happened. She felt empty and weak, and so very cold. She noticed she was wearing one of Sameen’s t-shirt and a pair of boxers and she frowned, trying to recall how she had reached Sameen’s building to begin with.

 

Her memory was clouded and nebulous from the moment she had arrived in Central Park, but in her implant the Machine told her about stomach pumping methods and she felt suddenly nauseous, and so very naked. Tears ran down her cheeks inexplicably and Root didn’t fight them, her chest burning and her breathing heavy and painful.

 

Beside her, she noticed Sameen’s silhouette, strangely bright against the darkness, sitting with her back against the headboard and looking outside the window with a clenched jaw.

 

Sameen didn’t turn to look at her, in fact she didn’t show any sign that she had noticed Root waking up, but Root knew she was talking to her. Sameen’s whisper, sad and exhausted, came to her like a punch.

 

“I’m not doing this anymore.”


	4. February

Trying to ignore the sharp pain of the blinding sunlight in her eyes, Sameen cracked her neck and stretched her arms before she readjusted her binoculars. The cold air of the early morning slipped into her coat uninvited, running shivers down her spine. She barely listened to Harold’s voice buzzing in her earpiece, paying only attention to the twelve-story building standing tall on the other side of the street. They had received a new number during the night; some sort of cult leader who had rented an entire level of empty office spaces two weeks prior.

 

“Got eyes on the perp, Finch,” she warned him, but Harold proceeded to remind her that they didn’t know whether he was a victim or a perpetrator. The fact that this number had taken out all security cameras previously installed in his rented space made him look more than suspicious, but she settled on remaining quiet. Everything turned into an argument with Harold and John these days, anyway.

 

She had started having doubts about this man’s motives while reading the file Harold had prepared earlier that morning, Sameen scowling with a large coffee in her hands as she fought to keep her eyes opened, exhausted. The number was some guru who claimed the apocalypse was near and that humanity had to disappear to make way for better things – which Sameen thought, was conveniently vague. The fact that he had managed to draw together a bunch of gun enthusiasts in his nihilist ideologies did nothing to alleviate her suspicions either.

 

At least it wasn’t a boring job this one, she had believed at the time. Yet, as she had made her way downtown to the address Harold had given her, the zealot’s speeches about doomed existences and inevitable fates returned to mind, pulling in its wake the memory of Root, and Sameen had decided then, that it would be better to get rid of this number fast.

 

It had been two months since she had last seen Root; ever since that morning she had left without a word, after Sameen had told her that she wouldn’t do this anymore – whatever this _thing_ between them was.

 

Root hadn’t tried to change Sameen’s mind. She had not cried, or begged, or gotten angry, like all other break ups Sameen had went through; not that they had much of a relationship to begin with. Root had gotten dressed alone with her one good arm, while Sameen stared from the entrance of the bedroom, looking at the bruises on Root’s chest and thinking of what she had been obligated to do. Of how infuriating it had been to force Root to throw up her meds, and then to feel her leaning on her in the shower, so _trusting_ as she cried and mumbled nonsense, head buried in the crook of Sameen’s neck.

 

There was only frustration now, a quiet irritation that kept Sameen awake at night, tossing and turning in her bed, uncomfortable and restless. During those hours she often thought of Root against her will, the remembrance of her weight in the mattress or the smell of her perfume on the pillowcase bringing her back to mind, despite Sameen’s best efforts to shut her out completely. Often, she wondered how Root had succeeded in hacking her way into her life, infecting Sameen like a virus on a hard drive, slowing her down – but even then, those were Root’s terms, Root’s reference frames, and it only fueled Sameen’s annoyance.

 

Harold and John had both tried asking questions now and then, but she just ignored their worry like she cleared her head of Root every time she found a hair that had belonged to her stuck between the sheets, or any time her phone rang, displaying an unknown number.

 

As she struggled to focus on her work, the unsettling feeling that someone was watching her crept up on her and Sameen shivered, wondering if the fatigue was finally taking its toll on her. When she heard footsteps behind her she realised that she wasn’t imagining things, and her instincts kicked in as she turned around quickly, gun drawn out. Her heart pumped hard, adrenaline coursing in her veins, and the sensation didn’t fade when she noticed she wasn’t in any real danger.

 

“Morning,” Root smirked, but it did nothing to hide the paleness of her skin or the dark circles under her eyes.

 

Sameen found she couldn’t reply. She stared and blinked, as if unsure that she should trust her eyes.

 

For two months now, every couple of days Sameen had picked up her phone and dialed Root’s number, but had never managed to call. She’d think of what she would say and wouldn’t find the words, and it seemed only worse with Root being _there_ , right in front of her, pretending nothing was wrong. Pretending Sameen hadn’t spent the last two months wondering, in the back of her mind, if Root had gotten herself killed.

 

The unwanted image of Root’s dead body, rotting in a ditch somewhere, always brought with it the remembrance of that night Sameen had held her in the shower, fully clothed and barely conscious. That night, Sameen had dutifully cleaned the vomit off Root before helping her change into fresh clothes, and then ended up carrying her to bed. All the while, a storm had raged inside Sameen, a furious desire to hurt Root buzzing inside, tightening her throat and burning her stomach.

 

And now there Root was, two months later, without a bruise on her – or at least, none that Shaw could see. Smiling as if not a day had went by.

 

“What are you doing here?” she snapped, short-tempered. Sameen had noticed how her behavior had changed in the past few weeks, how she couldn’t stop from feeling annoyed at everything, frustrated all the time. When she got like this, Cole usually told her that she needed to get laid, and maybe she did, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to get out of her apartment for anything other than numbers and long runs. She blamed her strange insomnia, but now that she stared at Root, she wasn’t so sure.

 

Root walked closer, ignoring the gun Sameen still had drawn on her. “Your number’s my number,” she continued, walking towards the edge of the building. Without a word, Sameen placed her gun back in its holster, turning around to lean on the parapet just beside Root. There was an odd thought at the back of her mind; that Root had slowly turned into a stranger while she was away and yet she still felt familiar, her elbow touching Sameen’s, and Sameen didn’t know what to say or do.

 

“He taught his disciples that the world ends today,” Root looked towards the building on the other side of the street, and Sameen wondered if it was the sunlight that made her flinch, or the fact that she stood so close beside her. Sameen smelled something over Root’s perfume – mint cough drops – and she felt anger inside, rising. She didn’t say anything, but Root moved apart slightly. “He had an important amount of fertilizer delivered to his farm in New Jersey.”

 

Sameen frowned, focusing on the job and burying her frustrations for now. “In the middle of winter?”

 

Root let out a small sigh, turning to stare back at Sameen. “Not very subtle, I know.”

 

Tapping her earpiece, Sameen kept her cold eyes glued on Root. “Finch, you heard that?” she asked, even though she knew he hadn’t missed a word. He said something about downloading the floor plans, and she turned her attention back on the building on the other side of the street. Having a purpose, a concrete task to accomplish made it a bit easier to breathe, to ignore the anger that threatened to burst every time she looked at Root. “How many insisde?”

 

Root shook her head. “They disabled the cameras last night,” she yawned like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Your guess is as good as any.”

 

As Finch relayed the information he had gathered about the building’s main weaknesses and that floor’s access points, Sameen tried to figure the best course of action. She hadn’t had enough time that morning to evaluate exactly how the number would react to a direct attack; would he detonate the bomb or try to defend himself? She settled on a plan, and yet couldn’t bring herself to share it with Root. It didn’t sit well with her, the idea that Root was essentially her back-up – she’d rather knock her out and leave her on this roof, and come back later to pick her up, if Sameen felt like it then.

 

She wished she had more time to prepare, or somehow, that she could go in alone – but there was no arguing with Root, and even Harold would probably insist that it would be better for her to work this one with a partner.

 

“I counted five on their floor, but that’s just what I can see from here,” Sameen passed the binoculars to Root, ignoring the way Root leaned into her slightly, their fingers brushing. “What’s your plan?”

 

It was a test, in a way; trying to get Root’s pulse, to see if she was sound of mind. She didn’t seem wasted, but with the way her movements were slowed down, the way she blinked more than usual, and the cough drops she used to hide the traces of alcohol in her breath, Sameen knew she had drank something before appearing here. She shook her head, once again ignoring the warning that she should leave Root behind and work this number alone.

 

When Sameen turned to face Root, her side leaning on the parapet, Root quickly erased the soft smile she had on her. Sameen realised Root had been staring at her and her chest tightened, a quiet pain like an old injury.

 

“Root?” she asked, ignoring just how close Root stood, crowding her even though it was just the two of them on that roof. Sameen felt a shiver running up her spine and on her neck, as if embarrassed by Root’s close eye on her and she swallowed hard when Root finally dropped her gaze and shook her head.

 

“We should go in on two fronts; one from the emergency stairs and the other from the elevator,” Root suggested, and it was all wrong. Sameen knew it would be safer to get on the floor just below their number’s and get eyes through the vents first, but she couldn’t say so.

 

She just wanted this to be over with; she agreed with a nod.

 

Despite her better judgement, Sameen turned around to pick up her duffle bag, eager to feel that rush of adrenaline again, that made it so much easier to forget the anger corroding her insides. Filled with surveillance equipment, guns and ammo, her bag was quite heavy and she was surprised when Root grabbed it first, throwing it on her shoulder like it was nothing. Still, she flinched when she started walking towards the staircase, and Sameen noticed how Root awkwardly stretched her arm, obviously healed but not completely; how Root looked nauseous and exhausted.

 

Sameen wondered for a second if she looked the same.

 

Root went down the stairs first, slow and awkward with the added weight on her shoulder, and Sameen thought of the Root she had known before, quick and agile. She felt the anger growing with every step as she compared the woman in front of her with the one she had been, only a year before. When they reached the outside again, Sameen turned off her communication line with Finch, feeling the rage inside her exploding when Root’s questioning eyes met hers.

 

She threw words at Root like shrapnel; “are you fucking crazy?”

 

Taking a step back, Root frowned and faked a smile, but there were tears pooling in her eyes and it only fueled the flames in Sameen’s chest.

 

“You’re showing up drunk on the job now?”

 

Root shrugged her off, a coldness falling like a wall on her traits. “I think you made it clear you didn’t want to be involved,” Root reproached and Sameen felt like she had been punched in the ribs – air leaving her lungs in one quick, painful rush.

 

It took her a few seconds to recover, but rapidly she followed Root across the street. As they went through the building’s glass doors, she insisted again. “And if we get killed because you make a mistake?” Sameen groaned, her heart beating wild when Root stopped in her tracks.

 

In the lobby, people sent them wearied looks that they both thoroughly ignored. Root clenched her jaw, and that gave Sameen the edge she needed to push even more. “You know, this thing we do,” her voice was low and threatening, and she didn’t know where it came from exactly, “it isn’t a stupid desk job.” Root blinked before she looked at Sameen, and for a second Sameen almost stopped the words from falling out of her, but it was too late. “You got no time to be depressed.”

 

It wasn’t fair; Sameen knew that. Root laughed bitterly.

 

“Fuck you, Shaw,” Root replied, shoving Sameen’s duffle bag in Sameen’s arms, the contents hitting her stomach hard. “I’ll take the elevator.”

 

Root left without another word, and Sameen opened up the communication line with Finch again, a feeling of dread settled in her gut as she made her way towards the staircase at the back of the building.

 

“How is Ms Groves?” Harold asked, and Sameen sighed.

 

“Her lovely usual self,” she replied in frustration before she started running up the stairs, her heart pumping, aching for reasons she didn’t wish to contemplate.

 

Her muscles were already burning up when she reached the sixth floor, and she relished on the pain, her mind slowly focusing on the job she had to do. In her ear Harold predicted what would happen if a bomb went off and destroyed the building, how many casualties there would be, and she reminded herself to concentrate on saving those lives and to forget whatever was going on with Root.

 

“Ms Shaw, is Ms Groves with you?” Harold asked just a second before Sameen heard gunfire three stories up and she ran faster, pushing her limits, her lungs burning wild.

 

She tried to steady her breathing as she went through the door quietly, hearing some shouts from a few rooms down, but no more gunshots. She focused on the voices – three, no, four men – and Sameen carefully stepped forward, keenly aware of her lack of intel. She found a man guarding some large wooden cases and knocked him out quickly, and when a woman came in to investigate the noise, shotgun in hand, Sameen fired a shot to her knee. She moved more quickly down the corridor, knowing that by now, she had most certainly been heard.

 

She took out two other perps before she finally found Root, blood dripping from her nose and a crazy glint in her eyes as she stared down the biggest of her three opponents; the man who’s number had come up the night before.

 

“Are you done?” she laughed, although one arm covered her stomach and Sameen guessed she had cracked one or more of her ribs somehow. She wiped the blood from her face with the back of her hand, smiling like she was having the time of her life and Sameen felt her heart skipping a beat when she remembered seeing that look on Root before. That mixture of arousal and relief at being hurt; it had no place here and it slowed Sameen down, as if turning her body into clay.

 

The number threw Root another hard punch and she fell to the ground with a quiet whimper, just as Sameen snapped back into action, firing three precise rounds that sent Root’s attackers down on the floor, crying out in pain. Sameen stepped forward into the room, assessing the threats and ignoring Root’s hisses as she awkwardly pushed herself up the floor with a hurt frown.

 

“Detonator,” she pointed towards the number and Sameen searched his clothes, finding the device in his shirt’s pocket. She didn’t spare Root a look; she went towards the charges and quickly pulled some wires, the amateur bomb easy to unrig. She shook her head as she sabotaged their system, and heard Harold asking if they were alright, and then offering her the emergency services’ ETA.

 

She didn’t reply, her throat shut tight since the sight of Root’s blood.

 

Once she was done, Sameen ignored Root and quickly made her way back to the staircase, now that the threat had been neutralised. Without turning around, Sameen knew Root was following closely behind despite her injuries slowing her down, and Sameen only accelerated her pace. She confirmed to Harold that they were out as soon as they both reached the outside, just before she turned off the communication device and shoved her earpiece in her pockets.

 

One glance to the side confirmed that they were alone in the alleyway and Sameen grabbed Root’s arms then, violently pushing her against the brick wall. Root hissed, but Sameen could barely hear her over the sound of the sirens coming close. Her cheeks flared, heart pumping wild as she allowed her anger to flow out of her. “You could’ve gotten us killed,” she groaned, and didn’t miss the way Root’s eyes closed, like she wasn’t listening. “What if they had detonated that thing, Root?”

 

Root didn’t answer, and Sameen let her go. Police sirens blared closer and she shook her head before she continued down the alleyway, putting some distance between them and the crime scene.

 

“I knew what I was doing,” Root shrugged behind her, careless.

 

“Sure you did,” Sameen mocked bitterly. Root followed her without a word, but her presence was making it impossible for Sameen to ignore the fire inside.

 

She grabbed Root’s coat and pushed her against another brick wall, the shock resonating painfully in her injuries as Root winced. Sameen stared into her eyes, as if searching for something in there, some trace of the woman Root had been before. Root held her gaze defiantly, although her teeth worried at her lip absently.

 

Root flinched first, one hand on her stomach, holding her cracked ribs protectively. Before Sameen could pull apart, Root tugged on the collar of Sameen’s coat, forcing her body to crash into Root’s. “Miss me yet?” she whispered with a wicked smiled, her eyes on Sameen’s lips.

 

Sameen felt the anger bursting inside, her resistance breaking like a dam and her fury flowed out of her, wild and threatening to drown them both. “Is that what this is about?” she pressed a hand on Root’s ribs and watched as her eyes watered in pain, “the radio silence?”

 

Root swallowed hard and gazed away, but Sameen wasn’t letting her go this time.

 

“You continue like that,” she groaned, her fingers fisting Root’s hard and pulling hard, forcing Root to look at her once more, “you’re going to get yourself killed.” _And I won’t even know_ , Sameen almost added, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Instead, she bitterly barked, “is that what you want?”

 

Something snapped inside Root then, and she bore her eyes into Sameen’s once again, fury mixed with arousal. “Why do you _care_ so much Shaw?”

 

“I don’t,” Sameen grunted, feeling the control slowly slipping from her as Root inadvertently licked her lips, her hand insisting on Sameen’s coat, pulling her close.

 

“You do,” Root whispered, leaning in. She batted her eyelashes and lowered her voice; “all I wanted was for you to fuck me.”

 

Sameen bit Root’s lip to shut her up, a groan leaving her throat despite her best efforts, her anger turning into heated arousal. Root slipped her arms around her waist, pressing Sameen’s body against her, her fingers running under Sameen’s opened coat, searching for warmth. Sameen’s hand quickly unbuttoned Root’s coat and groped Root’s breast over her sweater, pushing into her as if trying to make Root feel how desperate she was.

 

Breathing already scarce, Root tugged on Sameen’s hair, urging her on. Sameen’s hand brushed over Root’s belt and stopped for a second, hesitant, throwing a glance to the side.

 

“She’ll tell me if someone’s coming,” Root encouraged her to continue, undoing her belt herself. Sameen licked her lips at that, burying her face into Root’s neck and sucking at the skin until she left a mark. She pressed her hand down Root’s pants, Root’s fingernails digging into her wrist as if begging. Yet her fingers found Root barely ready, and Sameen frowned, pulling apart slightly.

 

“Are you cold?” Sameen whispered against Root’s jawbone, the worry she had tried to forget coming back in a wave, crashing inside her mind and taking over. Root grinded against her hand nevertheless, but it made Sameen feel awkward.

 

Root closed her eyes and bit her lip. “Just give me a minute,” Root complained and Sameen returned to her neck, biting this time and Root hissed, her cold hands running under Sameen’s sweater.

 

Sameen tried to ignore the way her worry turned into anger once again, Root’s fingers remaining cold and trembling, noting the way Root moved so slowly, her head resting against the brick wall with her eyes closed, like she was trying to picture something else, someone else maybe. Sameen bit harder, enough to draw blood and she watched the red crescent of her teeth marking Root’s skin, uncertain of how it had gotten there.

 

Root hissed and mumbled for Sameen to go on, and Sameen’s fingers moved slowly against Root’s labia, teasing, yet it seemed to do nothing but irritate the skin. Sameen kissed Root harder, trying to warm her or just desperately hoping to bury that unsettling feeling inside, that Root didn’t want this, that she didn’t want _her_.

 

When it seemed like the worry and the anger were about to take her over once again, Sameen stopped, staring until Root met her eyes.

 

“You don’t want this,” she tried not to make it sound like a reproach, but it still did.

 

Root frowned, one hand snaking around Sameen’s neck, fingernails digging into her skin. “I need this,” she whispered, pulling her close, but Sameen resisted, her limbs turning cold. “Please,” she begged, yet Sameen stayed still, finding it hard to breathe as her chest tightened, an unwelcomed pressure on her lungs.

 

“It’s not happening,” she shook her head, moving her hand on Root’s lower abdomen, her fingers resting over her pelvis, diffusing heat almost gently, despite the frustration nested in Sameen’s gut.

 

“Shaw,” Root swallowed hard, a tear rolling down her cheek as she shook her head in protest. Her other hand came to insist at Sameen’s wrist, trying to get her back to where she wanted her. Sameen resisted, eyes staring into Root’s, and then following the trail of that one tear that rolled down slowly. “Please, I need you,” she begged again, a sob shaking her chest and echoing into Sameen’s.

 

Hearing Root’s desperate voice, Sameen couldn’t stop the anger from exploding again, couldn’t stop the words from flowing out of her, a wave crashing into Root like the punches Sameen didn’t dare send her way.

 

“What you need, Root,” she furiously groaned, pushing herself off of Root, “is a fucking therapist.”

 

She left then; not sparing Root another look, her heart beating loudly in her chest, the rhythm so deafening that Sameen couldn’t stop herself from running, her footsteps falling too hard on the asphalt, hurting all the way up her spine.

 

[...]

 

It was the sudden light from her phone that woke Sameen up first, turning her bedroom into a glooming shade of blue even before the ringtone came on. She blinked a few times, blindly grabbing the device and noticing with annoyance that the call was from an unknown caller ID. She cleared her throat before she picked up, and didn’t say anything, waiting for the person on the other side to identify themselves.

 

“Hello?” a man’s voice asked on the line, and Sameen heard beer bottles clinking loudly in the background. “Hello?” the stranger repeated with an irritated sigh, obviously impatient.

 

Sameen swallowed hard, a sense of dread creeping in. “Yes?”

 

“Is this Sam?” the man asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Look I’m sorry to wake you up, but your friend doesn’t remember her address and you’re the only number in her phone.”

 

Sameen didn’t need to ask for a description; she knew exactly who he meant, and what was happening. Somehow, she had been expecting that call for a while, yet it flared up her anger and she found it hard not to hang up on the stranger.

 

“Where is she?” she asked instead, her heart beating wild as she pulled the sheets off her, the cold waking her up even more harshly. She was going to kill Root for this, she thought, searching for a change of clothes.

 

The man gave her an address that she quickly memorized while she slipped on some pants. “I can be there in fifteen,” she groaned with a raspy voice, the traces of sleep still obvious. She cleared her throat before she added, “can you keep her there?”

 

The man sighed again. “Yeah yeah,” he let out just before he hung up, and Sameen shoved her cell phone down in her pocket before she grabbed her keys and her coat with one hand, the other brushing against her eyes, trying to erase the remaining traces of slumber.

 

She locked the door behind her and slipped her coat over her tank top, walking fast down the corridor, cursing Root’s name.

 

The street was empty and frozen as she got to her car, shivering in her winter coat despite the angry fire burning inside, flames seemingly licking her gut as heat crept up her throat, making her nauseous. She slipped on the driver’s seat, exhausted, and ignored her reflection in the mirror, knowing how sick she must look.

 

She drove fast towards the address, burning red lights as she thought of Root and the many times she had showed up drunk at Sameen’s apartment, the many times Sameen had wondered if one day Root would get so wasted that she wouldn’t find her way back. Somehow that got her only angrier as she remembered their number that morning, Root being violently beaten up and _enjoying_ it, and Sameen pressed down the gas pedal, clenching her jaw.

 

When she finally reached the bar, she found it empty and locked, and almost considered breaking in. She knocked on the window instead, and a man appeared, a mop in his hand and a tired expression on his face. Sameen’s frustration only grew as he slowly unlocked the door, and she did her best not to groan at him in annoyance.

 

“Sam?” the guy asked and she nodded before he allowed her in.

 

He looked tired and grumpy, and yet something sad and soft in his eyes reminded Sameen that he had nothing to do with Root’s current condition, and so Sameen reeled in her anger and breathed down deeply. “She’s in the back room,” he told her, pointing to indicate the way and Sameen thanked him with a groan before she moved towards the back, her footsteps loud on the worn out wood floor.

 

The back room was poorly lighted and yet Sameen’s eyes were quickly drawn to Root’s frail body, curled up on a leather couch next to pool tables. Wearing a revealing dark purple dress, she was wrapped into a large man’s coat that made her look weak and small. Sameen guessed it belonged to the barman, but she couldn’t be sure. Behind her, she heard his voice.

 

“She was cold,” he explained, and Sameen didn’t turn around, her eyes stuck on Root, who didn’t seem to have noticed her presence. She was mumbling something, but Sameen really couldn’t hear through the sobs. “I looked around the bar, I didn’t find hers,” he spoke again, awkward. “I think she came in just like that.”

 

Sameen wasn’t surprised, and yet it sent a blow to her stomach. She felt the anger inside her rising, burning until she found she couldn’t even breathe. It wasn’t something she wanted, she thought, to _feel_ like this. With deaf ears and paralysed limb she felt powerless, reminding her of that cold night, sitting at the back of an ambulance and watching the flames slowly take what remained of her father, mercilessly destroying the life she could have had with him. It wasn’t fear she had felt that night her father had died; it was anger, sadness, and incomprehension turning into helplessness, and she couldn’t bear feel it for a second more.

 

There was no firemen trying to make her feel better this time, and certainly no fire, but Sameen felt the same pressure crushing her chest, and without even a thought, she pushed it off of her. She took a step forward and averted her eyes to the side, and in the course of a few seconds it quieted down, leaving her strangely empty, as if she had just pulled out the clip from the magazine of her USP compact.

 

Almost robotically, she got the man’s coat off Root’s shoulders, putting hers instead, even though that left her wearing nothing but her tank top. Root looked up then, wide eyes filled with tears.

 

“You came,” Root smiled sadly and Sameen shrugged, feeling the faintest pinch of hurt in her chest as she looked at the rivers down Root’s cheeks.

 

“Are you coming?” she asked without really thinking, as if it was someone else talking, but Root didn’t hear the difference. She only cried a bit more, nodding frantically. “Well come on then,” Sameen turned around to leave, but Root didn’t move. She sighed loudly and offered her a hand.

 

She helped Root off the couch and dragged her through the bar, stopping only to pull out a twenty and offer it to the barman. He flinched, shaking his head.

 

“It’s fine,” he said. “She didn’t break anything, she just... cried a lot.”

 

Sameen winced, putting the money back into her pocket. “Thank you,” she spoke with a raspy voice, throat still uncomfortable.

 

“It’s nothing,” he said, following them towards the entrance. “I just couldn’t let her leave like that.”

 

Sameen nodded. Somehow, she couldn’t either, yet it seemed like it was someone else, bringing Root back to the car, opening the door for her and helping her in. Like it wasn’t her fingers that ran into her hair as she made sure Root didn’t hit her head on the door frame. Like it wasn’t her hand that fell on Root’s thigh as she was driving, insisting that she stayed conscious.

 

Root had stopped mumbling as soon as they had left the bar. She looked out the window, almost catatonic, and Sameen found she had forgotten all the questions and reproaches she wanted to yell at her before. She felt silent, and empty, and strangely hungry.

 

When she got to her apartment she grabbed clothes for Root and a hoodie for herself, trying to warm herself up. She found Root curled up on the couch, her hand pulling on her ear and fingernails digging at the skin behind it.

 

Sameen threw the change of clothes at her carelessly before she went into her kitchen and made herself a sandwich, pouring Root a glass of water before she returned into the living room. There, Root hadn’t moved, and Sameen wasn’t surprised when she refused to acknowledge her presence.

 

She pulled up a chair front of Root, sitting with her feet up on the couch’s cushion as Root started mumbling again.

 

“Turn it off,” she begged, her eyes meeting Sameen’s. “You have to turn it off.”

 

Sameen frowned, setting her plate aside before she raised a hand to move Root’s curls from over her implant and inspected it. She saw red angry lines where Root’s fingernails had worried the skin around it, but nothing else. “Is it hurting you?” she asked, her mind quickly going through everything she knew about Cochlear implants and not finding how it could ever malfunction in a way that would physically hurt someone.

 

“She won’t stop talking,” Root whispered through her sobs. “Make her stop, Shaw.”

 

She seemed to zone out for a moment and Sameen dug her fingernails in the back of Root’s neck, forcing her to focus on her.

 

“Root, tell me what She’s saying,” she asked, the words spilling out more kindly than she thought they would, but they still didn’t sound like they were _hers_. Sameen felt cold and distant, and only her stomach’s hungry growling seemed to tether her in the moment.

 

Root wiped some of her tears with the tip of her fingers. “Just turn it off.”

 

Sameen frowned, wondering if the Machine was trying to convey some important message that Root was just too wasted to understand. “I will,” she lied, forcing Root to look at her again, “but you need to tell me what She says first.”

 

Root swallowed hard. “She says I have to stop,” she shook her head, biting down her lip until it drew blood. Sameen stared at the cut, detached. “I tried, Shaw, I really tried. I just can’t stop,” Root admitted, looking away and fighting the tears that threatened to come back.

 

Sameen let out an annoyed sigh. She leaned back in her chair and took another bite of her sandwich, looking at the clock and counting the hours of sleep she could still get before morning. Outside, the early sunlight was already coloring the sky into a dark blue, as if mocking her.

 

“Sam, please,” Root reached out for Sameen, pulling her close and Sameen barely had time to swallow before Root crashed her lips against hers, taking her by surprise. A few seconds went by before Sameen kissed back, an old reflex more than anything else, and Root’s lips tasted like salt, lime and tequila. “Just make Her stop,” Root begged again, her breath warm on Sameen’s chin.

 

“I can’t,” Sameen replied, shaking her head.

 

Insisting, Root started crying again until Sameen finally raised her hand to Root’s implant, pressing her warm palm against it. “Okay okay, there,” she whispered, irritated. Root gazed at her, confused, and Sameen pushed on the skin harder. “She’ll stop now.”

 

Root’s hands held onto Sameen’s wrist until she slowly sunk down on the couch, falling asleep almost against her will. Sameen waited beside her for a minute, listening to Root’s steady breathing. When she was satisfied Root wouldn’t wake up, she finally moved, grabbing a blanket from her bedroom and placing it on Root to keep her warm.

 

Sameen thought of going back to her bed and getting some sleep, but somehow she wasn’t convinced that Root wasn’t going to wake up in a panic later. Besides, she didn’t know how much Root had drank, and if she had just fallen asleep or had passed out from intoxication. She leaned back on her chair and finished her sandwich, downing the glass of water Root had refused earlier while she kept a close eye on Root, in case she needed medical attention. Once she was done eating, it didn’t take much for slumber to take Sameen over, dizzy with exhaustion, and a strange headache coming on.

 

She took one last look at Root, crawled into a ball under the blanket. Sameen struggled to recall that night in the shower two months ago, and the quiet morning that had followed; she ran the images in her mind, but it seemed like something was missing.

 

Sameen pushed that thought aside, and let her mind drown into sleep.


	5. March (Part 1)

Head throbbing, faint nausea, pained stomach; Root woke up like every other morning, wishing it was night already.

 

An unrelenting pain in her neck forced her to move and she shifted upwards, surprised to find herself lying on a couch. Usually the Machine found her a hotel room downtown before she passed out, but evidently this time she had ended up in Sameen’s apartment again. She tried to steady her wildly beating heart, searching her memories to retrieve the end of the previous night – she found she couldn’t.

 

She had blacked out after the second bar, where a tall redhead had bought her a few rounds of tequila shots, hanging around until she had figured out that Root wasn’t going to head home with her. Root never did, really; she faked smiles and winked, flirting only for the thrill of it, but never hooked up with anyone. She chased, and then she ran.

 

The thought brought a pale shade of red to Root’s cheeks, her ears buzzing uncomfortably and her throat tightening at the remembrance. She wished she could erase those memories too, wipe them from existence by shoving them in the void of her many blackouts.

 

Muffled noises came from the kitchen, and Root flinched at the thought that Sameen was still around, even though it wasn’t surprising; Root was in her apartment, after all. She threw a desperate glance at the door, wondering if she could run out of here before Sameen noticed she was awake, but her legs felt numb and she worried she wouldn’t be able to. Besides, her heart skipped a beat at the thought of leaving without seeing Sameen again, even if it meant getting into another fight.

 

Her nose pulsed in pain, as if the skin had caught fire and Root’s fingers brushed it gently with the tip of her fingers; it wasn’t broken, but it was still oversensitive. Examining the rest of her face, she found that her lower lip had been cut in two different places, and her cheek was badly scraped. She recalled the fight with her number the previous day and pressed a hand on her ribs, a sharp pain exploding inside, not helping with the nausea.

 

Root looked at the time – _9 am_ – and wondered why the Machine had failed to wake her up earlier. She brushed tentative fingers over her implant, finding the skin raw and hurting, and Root frowned. The Machine was oddly silent, and somehow Root wondered if something important had happened while she was out, something that she simply couldn’t remember. She swallowed hard and forced herself to move despite the pain.

 

When the blanket fell off her, Root noticed she was still wearing the same purple dress as the previous night, and she shivered. There was a change of clothes beside her on the couch, and she figured Sameen had left it there for her to change into, at some point. Seeing a constellation of bruises scattered on her legs, Root’s head throbbed even more, as if all the blood was suddenly rushing there, crashing against her skull painfully. She thought of Sameen’s eyes falling on her: how they would darken in anger, and Root felt the familiar pressure of shame on her sternum, making it hard to breathe.

 

Determined on hiding her scars and bruises as much as she could, Root slipped on the pair of sweatpants under her dress. She sent a worried glance towards the entrance of the living room before she quickly took off her clothes and pulled on the sweater. It smelled like Sameen and she felt a sob bursting in her chest, tears peeking at her eyes while she shook her head, blaming the exhaustion.

 

She took a moment to compose herself before she left the comfort of the couch, dragging her feet towards the kitchen, wondering if she should warn Sameen of her arrival, somehow. She cleared her throat before she entered the kitchen, but Sameen didn’t look surprised to see her; Root wondered if that was a good thing or not.

 

“Took you long enough,” Sameen glared at her, her voice cold and unapologetic. Root winced when Sameen turned around to grab a glass and fill it with water. She offered it to Root and, upon seeing her confused expression, Sameen added; “I offered you those last night.”

 

She pointed at the clothes and Root forced a smile. “Oh, yes,” Root let out, pulling a stool by the counter and sitting down, her cheeks flaring up under Sameen’s scrutiny. It wasn’t until Root took a sip of water that Sameen finally averted her eyes again, returning to the oven to continue cooking breakfast. Root flinched at the smell of food and yet she stayed still, looking at Sameen and trying to understand what was different about her.

 

The last time she remembered seeing Sameen, it was in that cold alleyway where Sameen had told Root that what she really needed was a therapist; Root’s chest tightened at the remembrance. She forced herself to down some more water, relieved when a few minutes passed without the nausea coming back. She must not have drank all that much, she thought, but then again she had blacked out several hours, and still had no clue as to how she had ended up at Sameen’s apartment. Strangely enough, Sameen wasn’t yelling at her, or telling Root to leave.

 

She opened her mouth a few times to ask, but then felt too embarrassed. Sameen turned around with two plates of scrambled eggs and some toasts, and Root winced.

 

“I don’t do breakfast,” Root flinched, and Sameen took a seat beside her.

 

“Pretty sure that’s my line,” she groaned, and Root only wondered even more what had happened the previous night. There weren’t many things she was sure of these days, but the idea that she had made things up with Sameen while being drunk was too far-fetched. She ripped a little bit of bread from the toast and slipped it between her lips, still staring at Sameen.

 

She waited for a few seconds before she finally asked. “How did I get here?”

 

Sameen took a sip of her coffee and shook her head. “Yeah, of course you wouldn’t remember.”

 

Her voice was bitter and annoyed, and she didn’t add anything else. In the accusing silence that followed, Root felt like she was falling, and wished she hadn’t said anything so that she could have had just a bit more of this quiet morning with Sameen, just a few more minutes with the pleasant feeling that they could share something again. But the illusion had been shattered, and there was no going back.

 

“The Machine isn’t talking to me,” Root said instead, meeting with Sameen’s eyes. There was something icy in there, like Sameen didn’t really care about her anymore, and Root felt colder than before, as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all and she shivered.

 

“You asked her to stop talking,” Sameen explained, shrugging as she pushed another mouthful of scrambled eggs in her mouth. “Because she told you to stop drinking,” she muttered as she chewed on her breakfast.

 

Root winced, some memories resurfacing in blurry images. She remembered someone’s jacket on her shoulder, and being unable to stop crying as a stranger held her hand. The Machine’s incessant chatter, giving her statistics about alcoholism and withdrawal, about addictive personalities, and Root begging her to stop. Sameen’s palm on her implant, warm and strong, steadying her.

 

“Seems like the Machine doesn’t like your weekend activities,” Sameen continued, glaring at Root’s plate until Root forced herself to eat another bite.

 

Root swallowed hard and then shrugged, even though her throat was hurting and her eyes were watering. “She’s just a system; She doesn’t understand anything about that.”

 

Sameen seemed earnestly surprised at that, and Root looked away, cheeks burning. She felt like she had betrayed something sacred, but she couldn’t take back the words even if she wanted to. Her heart started beating more rapidly, tension increasing, making Root uncomfortable and edgy.

 

“I thought she was your god,” Sameen insisted, the fork held up over the plate, waiting.

 

“There are no gods,” Root replied angrily, sighing loudly in frustration. She didn’t understand how she had gotten here, didn’t understand how Sameen could look so detached and careless, and why the Machine wasn’t talking to her. She felt like that time, years ago, when Daizo had used her computer while she was asleep, and she had woken up to find everything switched to Japanese. All the usual icons and programs were there, but Root just couldn’t figure anything out, and it was infuriating to feel so clueless.

 

Sameen didn’t reply to that, but Root felt scrutinized anyway. She pushed the plate and stood up, eager to return to the living room. She had settled on leaving before they got into another fight, hurt and anger mixing painfully inside her.

 

Sameen pulled on her arm, her fingers digging into Root uncomfortably.

 

“Sit,” she ordered, and Root felt the tears coming back. She took a deep breath and returned to the stool, trying not to cry.

 

“Last night, you said you tried to stop,” Sameen stated, her voice warming up slightly, and she took another sip of coffee while she eyed Root suspiciously.

 

Root swallowed hard, suddenly feeling naked under Sameen’s gaze, and pulling at the sleeves of the sweater as if to hide. She averted her eyes. “I just...” she sighed, knowing what was coming next, words she had tried so hard not to speak, and then turned to Sameen. “I just can’t stop feeling like this, Sam.”

 

Sameen winced at the use of her first name, and Root looked down on the counter, toying with the glass of water, the drops licking down its side like the tears Root wasn’t shedding.

 

“I don’t see why you care, anyway,” Root continued, not daring to look at Sameen. The pain in her throat blazed as she spoke, voice not wavering despite how weak and exhausted she felt. “You said it was over.”

 

“Apparently, I’m still the only number in your phone,” Sameen replied, and Root felt like she had just been punched. She turned to look at Sameen, and none of them looked away this time, eyes staring back as if daring. “I don’t care about you,” Sameen continued, articulating the words deliberately, insisting like every syllable was important. “Not like you want me to.”

 

Root could see in her eyes how Sameen wasn’t lying; how the warmth that was burning bright months before wasn’t there at all anymore. Somehow Root felt empty without it heating her skin, and desperately hoped she could have it back. She gasped, feeling a sob bursting inside her and threatening to pull her chest apart, and then blinked, trying to keep the tears from shedding.

 

“Well that makes it just a bit easier,” Root replied bitterly, angry at herself for ever believing someone would care about her.

 

She didn’t add anything else as she rushed out of the kitchen, and this time, Sameen didn’t stop her. Root closed the door of Sameen’s apartment loudly behind her, and waited until she was out of the building before she started crying, the sobs making her almost nauseous. She tried to catch her breath as she trekked down the sidewalk, ignoring the looks of pity and curiosity from the strangers around her.

 

Despite the city’s chaos, cars honking, people talking, and music blaring from shops, Root couldn’t help but hear the silence in her implant, the quietness deafening. She stopped at the corner of a street, and stared at a security camera.

 

“So it’s going to be like that now?” she asked, but no answer came.

 

 

[...]

 

 

“I need you to pick me up.”

 

Root winced at the sound of her own voice, the words tumbling out of her mouth clumsily, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, numb. She cursed her poor articulation, as if it was the telltale of her current state, even though the late hour had probably already indicated to Sameen that Root wasn’t sober.

 

She ran a trembling hand through her hair, ignoring the darkness that had settled around her, blinking slowly, focused on the cell phone in her hand. She heard breathing on the other side of the line and she waited, patiently, for Sameen’s answer.

 

A sigh came through the line, impatient and exhausted. “Root, I’m not doing this.”

 

There were tears running down Root’s cheeks and she didn’t know where they came from. She tried to quiet down her sobs, looking up at the empty street around her, the faint light of a lamp post a few blocks down. She walked towards the bus stop it beamed down on, heart beating fast.

 

“Shaw, I need-,” she stopped herself from saying truths she shouldn’t speak. She swallowed hard; “I don’t know where I am.”

 

The confession only fired up the panic inside as Root read the street names at the intersection, not recognising them one bit. She tried to remember how she had gotten there, but couldn’t retrace her steps.

 

From the other side of the line, she heard an irritated groan, and then nothing but silence. For a moment Root believed Sameen had hung up until she grunted; “ask the Machine, then.”

 

It sent a flash of pain through Root’s heart, skipping a beat and diffusing uncomfortable heat inside her chest. A sob threatened to leave her and Root closed her eyes, breathing deeply before she started walking again.

 

“She’s not answering,” she simply said, voice oddly composed. It had been a week since she had left Sameen’s apartment, a week since she last remembered hearing the Machine’s voice buzzing in her implant. Root had done everything to forget Her absence, but nothing worked, and tonight it seemed worse; like the Machine had never been there to begin with.

 

Like Root had always been alone, and had just been stupid enough to fool herself into thinking she wasn’t. Some imaginary friend to help her forget the pain.

 

“Well that’s good, I thought you _wanted_ her to shut up,” Sameen answered angrily.

 

Root didn’t stop the sob from rushing up her throat, this time. Her eyes burned and she felt nauseous, breathing scarce as panic grew inside her and she wished that for once, just this once, someone would come to help her.

 

The sensation wasn’t unlike the many times, when she was a child, that a nightmare woke her up, leaving her shivering and terrified in her own bed. How she would curl up under the bed sheets and close her eyes, praying that her monsters weren’t real, that the fear would leave, that she would feel safe again. She wished, then, that her mother would come to reassure her, tell her a story and make it better, but Root never called for her. She knew what would happen if she did, knew it would be more terrifying than all the monsters Root could ever invent.

 

In a cold, empty street, with her boots crunching the snow beneath her, Root cried for the child that she had been, that kid that felt just as weak and alone as she did now. It was only because she was certain that Sameen had hung up on her that she finally whispered words she had never really said aloud, “I’m scared.”

 

She was barely listening when Sameen’s voice came through the phone again. “Where are you?” she asked, snapping Root out of her thoughts.

 

“You’ll come?” Root questioned, and couldn’t help but sound hopeful. She brushed away her tears with the tip of her fingers.

 

“Tell me where you are,” Sameen repeated harshly, and Root blurted out the names of the two streets from the intersection where the bus stop was, not knowing where that was exactly. Probably still in New York, but she had no idea in which neighborhood.

 

Sameen’s voice was cold when she spoke again, but to Root it sounded like a promise. “Stay there,” she instructed dryly, and Root noticed the light of her phone turning off, indicating the call had been disconnected.

 

She tried to ignore that she was still alone, lost and confused, despite the fact that Sameen was on her way to pick her up. Root toyed with her phone, drying her cheeks a few times and running a hand through her hair as if she suddenly worried of what she looked like. She bit on her lower lip anxiously, reciting the digits of Pi until it turned into the coordinates of Sameen’s apartment. Her throat tightened, and she tried to forget about numbers.

 

Root didn’t know how much time had passed when a car finally slowed down, parking just on the other side of the street.

 

She felt her heart clenching, worrying it wouldn’t be Sameen, and she grabbed her pocket knife when she noticed a man slipping out of the driver’s seat, turning around to come towards her. She rose from the bench, knife in hand, ready to fight.

 

“Woa there, crazy chick,” Fusco lifted his arms in the air. “It’s me okay?”

 

Root frowned, not understanding what he was doing there, yet she lowered her knife. “Kind of late to be roaming the streets, Lionel,” she mocked, wiping her face with the sleeve of her coat, hoping he didn’t notice her burning red eyes. She smirked; “who knows what kind of creeps you could run into?”

 

“Yeah well, not exactly my choice,” he grunted. “Short-and-murderous told me to come here.” He looked grumpy and slightly worried when the light from the lamppost finally fell on him. Root felt the grip on her knife relax, but she still didn’t know what to do. Confusion spread in her mind and she took a step back, frowning.

 

“Why?” she asked Fusco, and cursed herself for sounding so drunk.

 

“Just said to come here and that I’d know what to do,” he answered, leaning closer. His hands fell into his pockets as he stood before Root awkwardly. “You don’t look so good.”

 

Root’s nausea spiked but she managed not to throw up, biting down her lip and focusing on her breathing. “I’m alright,” she protested even as a cold wave ran down her spine, making her ill.

 

“Sure you are,” Fusco didn’t look convinced, and when she flinched he grabbed her arm, holding her up. She shrugged him off, but that didn’t deter him. “Look, how about I give you a ride home?”

 

Root gazed down the empty street, wondering if Sameen would show up if she refused Fusco’s help, but she knew Sameen wouldn’t. She nodded in agreement, yet shook his hands off her when he tried to steady her as she crossed the street. She focused on walking straight and knew she was failing, and she hoped she wouldn’t remember this moment, when morning would come.

 

The interior of Fusco’s car smelled like junk food and she winced.

 

“Hey, no throwing up in the car,” Fusco warned, turning over the ignition.

 

Root smirked, running a hand through her hair. “Or what?”

 

“Or I leave you here and you can call your girlfriend to pick you up,” he threatened, although he was already driving away.

 

Root didn’t answer, the hurt suddenly blinding. She thought of telling him that Sameen wasn’t her girlfriend and had never been, that it had all been an illusion Root had imagined. That she had always been alone anyway, and that there was nothing she could ever do about that; but she couldn’t say those things aloud, and especially not to Fusco.

 

“So what’s your address?” he asked, two streets down the road.

 

Root swallowed hard, averting her gaze out the window. “I don’t have one.”

 

Fusco reached a red light and stopped, turning to look at Root with curious eyes, despite his overall annoyance. “Where do you sleep then?”

 

“Hotels,” Root shrugged.

 

He lifted his eyebrows and focused on driving again, letting out a small laugh. “And I thought my ex-wife had luxurious tastes.” Seeing as Root didn’t answer, he continued; “so, any place in mind?”

 

“I lost my wallet,” Root remembered then when her earlier panic had started exactly; that moment when she had realised she had nowhere to go. She had settled on stealing some cash to pay for a room, but she had guessed that she was too drunk to pull it off. She had left the warmth of the bar to wander the streets, slowly sobering up until she couldn’t find her way back.

 

“Well there’s no way in hell I’m paying for a hotel, Cuckoo’s Nest.”

 

Root shrugged, her eyes watering. “Just leave me downtown.”

 

Fusco shook his head. “So you can pickpocket someone’s credit card?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t think so.”

 

He continued to drive in silence, and Root was starting to feel grateful until she recognised the neighborhood they were in. Her chest tightened in pain, and she blinked.

 

“No, I can’t go there,” she told Fusco, almost begging.

 

“Well it’s that, a women’s shelter or a cell,” Fusco replied in annoyance, parking his car in front of Sameen’s building.

 

Root followed him inside, wishing herself invisible and wondering if she should just run away. Once again she felt compelled in staying and she didn’t say a word, worrying at her lower lip. Fusco knocked on Sameen’s apartment door too loudly and Root flinched, and he glared at her, as if silently ordering her to behave.

 

Sameen opened the door with a gun in her hand and sleepy eyes, and she frowned. “What the hell is she doing here?”

 

“She’s got nowhere to go,” Fusco shrugged, and Root winced. Their conversation made her sound like some helpless kid needing a home, and she didn’t like the thought. She looked away, not daring to look at Sameen’s angry eyes.

 

“Can’t you let her have your couch for one night?” Sameen groaned, and yet opened the door a bit more. Root knew then that Sameen would let her in, like she always did in the end, but this time Root didn’t know if she wanted her to.

 

Fusco rolled his eyes. “Hey, I got a kid you know?” he insisted. “What am I supposed to tell him in the morning; don’t wake the psychopath sleeping on the pull-out bed?”

 

“She needs help,” Sameen replied as if chastising him.

 

“I think I do,” Root let out then, so very tired, and she felt both pair of eyes landing on her. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, awkward. She felt tears coming on again, but she stopped them before they shed. “I think I need help.”

 

She lifted her gaze to meet Sameen’s and noticed a spark of something there, a bolt that flashed like anger but felt warmer.

 

“Alright,” Sameen agreed with a sigh, pulling the door open and letting Root in.

 

Root entered obediently, barely listening as Sameen thanked Fusco before he left, and locked the door. Her heart beating loudly in her chest, Root turned to look at Sameen, closing the distance between them.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered against Sameen’s cheek before she leaned to kiss her, her lips finding Sameen’s almost instinctively. Root thought she could feel Sameen kissing back a second before Sameen pushed her off angrily.

 

“That’s not-” Sameen sighed in frustration. “You know where the couch is.” Sameen pointed towards the living room, annoyed and cold. Root nodded, slightly confused, ache spreading through her chest and embarrassment pulsing in her reddened cheeks. “And if you come into my bedroom, I’ll shoot you.”

 

 

[...]

 

 

“So, did you mean it?”

 

Root opened her eyes painfully, the sunlight blinding her. Sameen stood in front of her with a glass of water and painkillers, and Root frowned.

 

“Mean what?” Root asked, pulling herself up on the couch for the second time that week. She met with Sameen’s angry eyes and flinched.

 

“That you need help,” Sameen replied, her tone barely softening.

 

Head throbbing, Root brushed the tip of her fingers against Sameen’s palm, slowly picking up the pills, her other hand wrapping around the cold glass. She breathed down deeply, trying to get the words out, but her throat tightened, trapping her voice inside her chest. She nodded instead and quickly swallowed the medicine, hoping it would be enough. When she looked up at Sameen again, her serious traits hadn’t budged, and Root knew she had no choice but to speak.

 

“I tried, after...” Root remembered that Christmas morning, her arm broken and nowhere to go, and her voice broke. She averted her eyes, looking at the pale grey sky instead of Sameen’s dark look. “I don’t think I can do it alone.”

 

Sameen didn’t reply anything, but Root felt the atmosphere shift in the living room, tension leaving slightly as Sameen’s traits relaxed. She leaned back in a chair and Root curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket over her bare legs. Her skin was covered with bruises that she didn’t remember getting; forgotten moments when she had lost balance, falling everywhere like she didn’t know how to walk anymore.

 

And somehow, she realised, Root really didn’t.

 

“Okay,” Sameen finally said, nodding like she had heard enough. She left Root’s side, heading towards the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with two steaming cups of coffee.

 

“Okay?” Root repeated, uncertain of what it meant exactly. Sameen frowned.

 

She offered Root one cup before she pulled her chair closer, eyeing her like Root was some patient to take care of, evaluating the damage and settling on a treatment. The methodical checkup felt intrusive ever over the blankets and Root hid her face behind her cup of coffee, taking a sip despite the liquid being far too hot, burning the tip of her tongue.

 

“Three rules,” Sameen started, and suddenly the living room fell quiet around her, even though Root’s heartbeat had turned wild. “You break one, you’re out.”

 

Root nodded, something like hope fluttering inside, her nerves quietly growing tensed as she focused on Sameen.

 

“No drinking,” Sameen started with a grave voice and Root echoed it in a whisper, like a promise; “no drinking.”

 

Sameen didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t comment on it. “And I’m not throwing my hundred dollars bottle of whisky down the drain because of you,” she added, annoyed, “just so you know.”

 

Root tried a smile, warmth spreading in her chest. “Wouldn’t expect you to, Shaw.”

 

Picking up on something in Root’s eyes, Sameen shook her head. “No funny business,” she ordered, and upon seeing Root’s confused look, she clarified; “that’s the second rule.”

 

Raising a questioning stare from behind her cup, Root waited for an explanation.

 

“I mean no flirting, no innuendos, no nothing,” Sameen continued. “Whatever we had, it’s long gone.”

 

Root swallowed hard, ignoring the hurt in her gut. “I know.”

 

She had trouble breathing and so she averted her eyes, trying to ignore the ache that overcame her senses and made Root feel like she was bleeding out. Silence settled between them, awkward, heavy, and painful, and Root broke it quickly. “What’s the third rule?”

 

Sameen shrugged before she stood up, leaving her chair.

 

“No touching my guns,” she stated, walking towards the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks. “Or my grenades, or my knives.”

 

Root nodded, relaxing slightly. “No touching of weapons. You got it.”

 

Sameen sighed and turned around. “I’m serious, Root,” she glared at her, impatient yet severe. “You break one rule, and you’re back on your own. Are we clear?”

 

Root swallowed hard, her throat aching – then again, it seemed as if there wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t painfully exhausted. Once more she thought it was as if she was bleeding out, her life pouring out of her without restraint, and it sounded like she was muttering her last words when she finally whispered her promise.

 

“Very clear, Sameen.”


	6. March (Part 2)

Staring out the window, Root clenched her jaw and forced herself to take deep breaths. She gazed at the cars running down Sameen’s street, at the few people who had dared walking out in the pouring rain. While she leaned on the windowsill her leg moved restlessly, shaking as if she was nervous, exhausting the muscles. Her ribcage seemingly pressed against her inner organs uncomfortably, a reminder of the relentless urge to leave. It was there, tugging in the back of her mind, begging. In the reflection on the glass Root could see the door leading out of Sameen’s apartment, the faint image like a ghost.

 

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the thoughts that had been plaguing her for a little more than an hour, now. The voice inside that convinced her there was no point in staying here, no point in fooling herself. Root wouldn’t last long, soon she would bend and perhaps, break; she would grab her coat and run under that same rain, letting it drown her until she would find a bar or a liquor store, whichever came first. She could picture herself drinking, and imagine the burn down her throat; how inevitable it seemed to be.

 

It wouldn’t be long until she gave up feeling so exhausted and weak, she knew that. A drink would wipe that sickly gaze in her eyes, just like it would erase Sameen’s cold stares from Root’s mind, and help bury those memories that kept resurfacing. Everything Root had left behind in Bishop returned to her these days, haunting her, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Memories from a time she had been quick to put behind, that she wanted gone from her existence – souvenirs she associated with another name that she didn’t like to think of _hers_.

 

Samantha Groves.

 

The weird kid from the edge of town, living alone with a mother who _wasn’t well_.

 

It was Root who wasn’t well now, Root who didn’t know what to do with herself and those plaguing images from her childhood. It was Root who thought of doing the same thing her mother had done, all those years back, Root who wanted to give up, and let the world swallow her whole.

 

The bathroom door opened and it snapped Root out of her thoughts as she imagined Sameen getting out of the shower, the mist that had more likely gathered on the mirror, the warm steam that no doubt still lingered in her wake. For a brief moment she pictured joining her, how good it would feel to forget the ghosts and the sensation of falling by just losing herself in Sameen’s heat. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, knowing Sameen would never agree, but she had never refused Root before and it was so very hard not to ask.

 

Root heard the bedroom door closing and the noise echoed all the way back into her chest, tightening even more. She tried to convince herself it didn’t mean anything, but it felt like distrust, and Root deserved it, and even more. Sameen had no reason to believe anything Root said or did, and the only reason she was allowing her in her apartment was probably because she could take down Root in a fight any day.

 

Especially these days.

 

Sameen appeared at the entrance of the living room, hair dripping on her clothes lightly, and threw a pillow and bed sheets towards Root. Barely catching them in time, she frowned.

 

“It’s a pull-out,” Sameen explained. “Since you’ll be here a while.”

 

Root blinked, confused, but Sameen didn’t add anything else. Instead, she pulled on the dry towel resting on her shoulder and started drying her hair without another word, staring at Root like she was wondering what Root was going to do. For a moment Root only gazed at the wet curls, the scent of Sameen’s shampoo reaching her, familiar and tempting. Her previous thoughts returned in a rush of arousal and she pictured closing the distance between them, innuendos burning the tip of her tongue. She could imagine the way Sameen would roll her eyes and how it would make Root’s heart skip a beat.

 

Instead, Root moved from the window to the couch, placing the sheets and the pillow on top of it before she searched for the mechanism. Her headache throbbed under the effort, making the room spin for a moment, and Root managed to pull out the mattress with pained, slowed movements.

 

_Stay_ , she heard in the background and she toyed with her implant, still turned off. It hadn’t been the Machine’s usual voice either; it sounded more like Sameen’s but it hadn’t came from where she stood. Root turned to stare at her, puzzled.

 

“What?” Sameen asked with a frown, looking down to examine her tank top and her sweatpants like she had something on her.

 

“Did you just say something?” Root wondered aloud, suddenly anxious. She felt like she had missed a part of the conversation or like she wasn’t supposed to be here.

 

Sameen sighed. “It’s the exhaustion,” she explained; “you’re hallucinating.”

 

Root wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t add anything, already embarrassed enough. She placed the sheets over the mattress, slowly making the bed despite her muscles aching with every move. At the entrance of the room, Sameen leaned against the wall, gazing at Root as if she was studying her. Root felt her cheeks reddening under the attention, wondering if Sameen knew what she had been thinking of doing just a minute before.

 

What she was thinking about now, her fingers running over the fabric of clean sheets, with her senses drowning in Sameen’s presence. Her mouth dried up as her heart ran a faster beat, as if fighting against the constriction of her chest.

 

“It’ll pass,” Sameen muttered like a promise and Root shrugged like she didn’t really mind, even though every second seemed more painful than the previous one. “You haven’t thrown up yet, that’s a good sign.”

 

Root bit on her lip, ashamed and frustrated, and so very tired. “Yeah, wouldn’t want you to have to clean up after me again,” she snapped.

 

The words had spilled from her bitter and accusing, filled with the dark thoughts that swelled inside her and insisted on Root’s constant failures. Her cheeks fired up even more, her lungs burning painfully as she lifted her gaze from the bed and met with Sameen’s cold stare. Somehow, it helped soothing the strange fever that had taken over Root, not finding the kindness and pity Root didn’t think she deserved anyway.

 

“I’m sorry,” Root apologised in a low voice, swallowing hard as a lump formed in her throat. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined that Sameen would ask her to leave now, that she would say Root had pushed to far once again. She wouldn’t blame her if Sameen chose to; that, too, felt inevitable.

 

But Sameen only shrugged, annoyed. “I’m gonna make lunch,” she stated before she moved towards the kitchen. “And then you can take a nap,” she ordered without turning around.

 

“I’m not really hungry,” Root answered almost instinctively, her shaking hands returning to the bed sheets, eyes not daring to lift from the mattress again.

 

From the kitchen, Root heard Sameen’s irritated reply, “well I don’t care much about that, do I?”

 

The muffled noises coming from the kitchen made it that much easier for Root to push aside the need to leave, focusing what little energy she had on making the bed as neatly as she could.

 

 

[...]

 

 

Her nap hadn’t lasted long and Root had spent the most part of her day tossing and turning on the pull-out couch, exhausted and yet, unable to rest. She heard Sameen’s voice coming from her bedroom and Root frowned, slipping out of the sheets and slowly walking up to Sameen’s door. Her bare feet were quiet as she sneaked up to the room. With an absent thought she realised it wasn’t something she should be doing, spying on Sameen, but she couldn’t help it.

 

She leaned against the door, finding Sameen’s voice angry and rough, and she stayed there, barely breathing, her good ear listening in.

 

It seemed that Sameen was talking on the phone – Root would’ve heard if anyone had come in the apartment during her nap. She didn’t wonder for long who Sameen was talking with, a sharp “no Finch, I can’t” coming through the door loud and clear.

 

Root frowned at the tone, nerves tensing as she realised Sameen could exit her room at any time, and catch Root in the act.

 

Still, she didn’t budge.

 

“Because I have something to take care of,” Sameen had that strained voice she used only when she was forced to repeat something she would rather not say again. Root’s lungs emptied out in a flash as if she had just been punched, instinctively knowing that she was the reason Sameen was refusing to do whatever Harold was asking of her.

 

Root wondered whether she was touched or not by the fact that Sameen seemingly hadn’t told Harold it was because she was stuck in her own apartment with Root. Somehow she was grateful that Sameen didn’t expose Root’s weakness to a man she had considered like a mentor, once, but something else bothered her; the thought that she was some shameful secret to hide away. “Well how am I supposed to _know_ that?”

 

Hearing the quick footsteps on the other side of the door, Root guessed that Sameen was pacing back and forth as she added furiously; “I’m sure Reese will be fine, Finch. The guy’s wife clearly just hired some lowlife to do the job.”

 

Since there was nothing else in response, Root moved away from Sameen’s bedroom, but not fast enough to return in time to the living room. She smiled at Sameen as she caught her leaving, hoping it wouldn’t betray how long she had spied on her conversation.

 

“You received a number?” Root asked, her heart beating fast, mouth drying up.

 

Sameen just shrugged. “Reese will take care of it.”

 

Guilt crept in at the dismissive tone; Shaw had always loved her job almost as much as she loved Bear or food, and it felt wrong to have her here, away from the action Root knew she craved. Even though she was terrified at the thought of being left alone, remembering how hard it had been not to run away earlier, Root found it impossible to keep the words in.

 

“You can go, I’ll be fine,” she breathed out almost desperately. Root hoped that she had sounded firm and calm, but her hands trembled and she didn’t need a mirror to guess that she still looked terrible. It made her feel even more embarrassed, that she couldn’t even reign over her ridiculous limbs, and she pulled on her sleeves, hiding in Sameen’s borrowed sweater.

 

Sameen sighed before she made her way towards the living room, Root silently following in her tracks. “In the first forty-eight hours of withdrawal, some people have seizures,” she explained, detached as if reciting some manual. She turned around then, almost startling Root. “I’m not leaving you.”

 

Root bit on her lip as a pinch of hurt ran through her chest. She swallowed hard when Sameen moved again, the scent of Sameen’s perfume lingering in the air behind her and making Root even more aroused. She had always been attracted to Sameen, pulled towards her in ways she had trouble explaining to herself, but today it seemed almost blinding. For a moment she wanted nothing but to feel Sameen’s skin against hers and forget that anything existed outside of her beating pulse.

 

Clearing her throat and pushing the desire aside, Root followed Sameen. “I thought only long-time alcoholics would be subject to that,” she suggested, repeating the three rules in her mind like a mantra. No drinking, no sex, no weapons.

 

No drinking, no sex, no weapons.

 

It seemed like they didn’t have the same weight, the same authority as they had in the morning, when Sameen had stated them. With distance it looked like a ridiculous promise; Root and Shaw had always been all about sex and weapons, and had never shied away from alcohol.

 

“Yeah, well you’ve always been a lightweight so, who knows,” Sameen argued, sitting on Root’s pull-out bed and turning on the television. “Besides there’s a game I wanted to watch.”

 

It was a bad excuse, Root could easily tell. She felt the pull once again, the desire rising inside, but she didn’t say anything, hoping Sameen didn’t notice. Or maybe she wanted her to _know_ , somehow, to just _feel_ what Root wanted and give it to her, but it didn’t work like that. It had never worked like that.

 

“It’s my bed,” Root complained, standing beside the couch as if waiting for approval. She didn’t trust herself not to make a move and she bit on her lip, quietly fighting for self-control.

 

“And it’s my couch,” Sameen replied, glaring at her.

 

Root circled around the couch to sit beside Sameen, but when she opened her mouth to say something, Sameen cut her off. “Not a word.”

 

Sameen turned her attention to her football game and Root kept quiet, silently remembering the many times she had spoiled the outcome by having the Machine predict the score. The Machine was silent today, however, and Root knew She probably wouldn’t answer if Root asked, anyway. Root didn’t mind; she felt she had ruined enough already.

 

Finding herself with nothing to do, she thought of that number John was working alone because of her, and suddenly worried that if something happened to him Sameen would never forgive her. Her mind quickly derailed to horrible scenarios in which John died over and over again, and Sameen hated Root, blamed her for it. The more Root imagined it and the more it seemed inevitable. More than just conceivable; it made sense that she would be guilty of his death too, because it had been Root’s job to be an analogue interface and she had failed.

 

She had returned to being Samantha Groves or had just never stopped being Root, really, unable to set aside her humanity and become a tool, a weapon, and she had failed them all.

 

“Would you stop that?” Sameen groaned, and Root lifted her worried gaze to meet Sameen’s.

 

“What?” she asked, anxious teeth still gnawing on her lip.

 

Sameen sighed loudly. “Shaking your leg,” she answered, obviously irritated. “It’s annoying as hell.”

 

Embarrassed, Root faked a smile and steadied her limb. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, and Sameen rolled her eyes before she stared at the screen again, slightly turning up the volume.

 

Root tried to do so as well, but she couldn’t concentrate on the match. She had never really bothered with sports, couldn’t see the appeal. When she glanced at Sameen she wondered why she loved watching those games so much, if it had anything to do with that father she didn’t like mentioning, and the thought reminded her of that portrait they had found at Sameen’s house. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since that weekend, and Root didn’t recognise Sameen’s eyes now; they seemed so very different from the warm gazes she had seen then.

 

Now Sameen was cold, detached. It confused Root, this disparity between Sameen’s attitude towards her and her actions. Sameen had repeated a few times that nothing was going on between them, but then she was allowing Root to share her space, a space Root knew even John wasn’t welcomed in, and helping her even though she had all the reasons not to.

 

Sameen left the couch for a moment and returned with a beer, and Root tried not to stare. Something burned inside her chest, chipping away Root’s will as she tried not to think that one drink wouldn’t hurt, that it wouldn’t be _that_ bad. Somehow, Root knew if she had one beer she wouldn’t stop there, but the thought slowly settled in the back of her mind; Root was a train wreck anyway, and there was no point in trying to change that.

 

“Don’t think about it,” Sameen warned and Root shook her head.

 

“I wasn’t,” she breathed out, and Sameen smirked.

 

“Liar,” she replied, turning to look at Root.

 

There was something in her voice, some low intonation that made Root’s heart skip a beat. She kept her eyes on Sameen’s lips, thinking of how it would taste if she was to kiss her now, a mixture of beer but mostly Sameen, warm and inviting like that night in the back of a car, before an officer knocked on the window. That moment where Root had wanted Sameen more than she had ever wanted anyone before. That night she wanted time to stand still so bad that she had forgotten to listen to the Machine, had become deaf to the world around them and listened to nothing but the quiet hush of Sameen’s hands on her.

 

Root bit on her lower lip, aroused. “So what if I was a liar?” she asked, barely noticing how her voice slowly turned into a purr and Sameen, into a game. She felt the shift inside, the restrictions lifting; she couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop how much she wanted to _feel_ something else, something other than the void that she was and the shaking of her hands.

 

Sameen frowned. “Root,” she warned, but Root didn’t feel like listening to her. She wanted to be deaf and blind, to ignore everything around them again and know nothing but Sameen’s heat against her, her pulse loud under her skin and throbbing all the way into Root.

 

She moved to straddle Sameen, a smirk on her face. “What happens if I want to break all the rules at once?” she leaned down, one hand running through Sameen’s hair, and Sameen shook her head.

 

“Root this isn’t funny,” she sighed, her hands coming to grasp Root’s wrists like a warning that Root chose to ignore.

 

“I’m serious, Sameen,” Root got her attention again, grinding down on her. “Maybe I’m not made for the long run,” she tried to run her fingers on Sameen’s side, but Sameen twisted her hand in a wrist lock and she hissed. She looked at Sameen, only more aroused, and smirked. “Maybe I’m made to crash and burn.”

 

Sameen stared at her, blinking like she was curious. “You really think that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Root smiled, looking at the way her wrist turned pale, hurting. She pushed against the hold, making it hurt just a bit more and revelled in the pain. “How about you take out your knife, and we _both_ have a nice afternoon?”

 

Sameen pushed her off, then, annoyed.

 

“I know you don’t care about me anymore, Shaw,” Root felt the hurt as she spoke the words she had feared, turning to gaze at Sameen, noticing how her jaw clenched in anger, the way her eyes narrowed. “I’m not asking for what we had before,” Root continued, a hand running up Sameen’s thigh. She noticed the shift in Sameen’s breathing, how she wanted this too. “I just want to keep busy,” Root went on, her fingers toying with Sameen’s belt. She leaned down again, her lips almost reaching Sameen’s neck, but not daring to touch, not yet. “I just need to stop thinking.”

 

Sameen pushed her off again, angry and cold. “Do you even hear what you’re saying?” she asked and Root stopped, as if the question had snapped her out of it. She bit on her lip, feeling tears of shame gathering in her eyes. “I can’t believe you,” Sameen shoot her head, as if disappointed.

 

“It’s just too hard, Shaw,” she replied, looking at the bed sheets instead. “I can’t do it.”

 

“Yeah, you can,” Sameen retorted, crossing her arms.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Root whispered and she was so lost and confused. She didn’t have control over her own body anymore, her emotions bursting all over the place and she didn’t know why she _felt_ so many things at once, and so intensely, mixing the anger the shame the desire. Root thought her body was a battlefield filled with invisible landmines she kept stepping on, exploding in ways that burned and cut, and made her want to hide.

 

“Just start by watching the fucking game,” Sameen grunted, and it pulled a sad smile out of Root, the way Sameen spoke like watching television was the best thing to do right now.

 

Root groaned as she wiped her cheeks, but found them void of any tears. “I don’t like football.”

 

“See, that’s the fourth rule,” Sameen glared at her, although her tone had turned a bit warmer, a bit more playful, like she was trying to cheer Root up as best as she could. “No talking during football games.”

 

Silence settled between them again and Root stared at the screen, trying her best to concentrate on the match instead of the inferno burning inside. After a few minutes Sameen commented on a player’s throw, and then moments later, on another guy’s pass. Root didn’t care much about the sport and the statistics but she noticed the smile lurking on Sameen’s face, how she slowly relaxed by Root’s side again. She didn’t say anything, simply listened as Sameen adding information on a player’s background, little nudges like, Root realised after a little while, the Machine would.

 

She fell asleep after that, exhaustion pulling at her mind until she gave in, the world turning black as her breathing deepened, Sameen’s voice still buzzing in her ear.

 

 

[...]

 

 

Root threw some cold water in her face again, eyes closed as she leaned over the bathroom’s sink. She had woken up with terrible nausea, running to get to the toilet as quickly as she could, and she had lost no time throwing up the lunch Sameen had cooked only two hours before. Her hands were still shaking uncontrollably, and fatigue strained her muscles, leaving her cold and hurting.

 

Sameen appeared at the entrance of the room with a gun in her hand. “You should take a shower and try another nap,” she instructed, cocking a clip in her compact’s magazine. “I’ll be out a while.”

 

Root nodded, and opened her mouth to ask where she was going, but Sameen cut her off; “John needs a hand. You stay put.”

 

She left the bathroom without another word, and Root heard the apartment’s door locking behind her. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and for a moment Root worried about being left alone, about what she could do. Instead of allowing panic to return, she took one look at Sameen’s bath and settled for that, running water so hot that it burned her skin. It spread a pleasant tingling across her nerves as she sunk in, and somehow the almost unbearable warmth helped Root forget about her upset stomach and her throbbing headache.

 

She hadn’t slept much earlier; it seemed every time she managed to fall asleep the nausea returned, and she had now thrown up more bile than she thought she could humanely produce. She had cried all the tears she could, too, and her shaking had only gotten worse, making her feel like she was going to die even though Sameen kept telling her that she wasn’t, that it was just a rough patch to go through, that Root was being melodramatic.

 

Root had thought of the doctor Sameen could have been once, of how good she would have been. Root didn’t mind Sameen’s roughness, her pushing Root to her limits even as she felt like she was already at the edge and about to fall. It was like being kept awake with little electroshocks, those naggings, those grunts of annoyance, those moments when Sameen told her to just stop having so many emotions, like it was a switch Root just had to flick.

 

She hadn’t realised she had fallen asleep in the bath tub, and woke up to the sight of a pissed off Sameen staring down on her.

 

“You could’ve drowned,” she remarked, not even flinching when Root slowly stood up, completely naked before Sameen. “And now you’ll be dehydrated.”

 

Root shrugged, taking the towel Sameen was offering, and started to dry up while pretending to ignore Sameen’s eyes running over her body. She noticed the shift from professional to something else; from the way Sameen searched for new scars and ended up lingering on old ones. Root swallowed hard, trying to convince herself that it was all in her head, anyway.

 

“How was your number?” she asked, feigning disinterest.

 

“None of your concern,” Sameen replied, turning around and leaving her there, door open, the cold air drying her skin uncomfortably.

 

They ate dinner without a word, Sameen sometimes glancing up at Root and making sure she was eating. It took Root forever to finish the small portion in her plate while Sameen cleaned the dishes, and once she was done, Sameen only gave her another glass of water with a small pill. Root frowned.

 

“What’s that?” she pointed at the medicine.

 

“It’ll help you sleep,” Sameen replied, and Root bit down her lip.

 

“I can sleep just fine,” she said, but she had started shaking her leg constantly again. She hadn’t got any rest in her previous naps; the bath had relaxed her muscles but she still felt just as exhausted as before, and she knew it was only pride speaking. Moreover, it was clear Sameen wasn’t fooled by it.

 

“Fine, suit yourself,” Sameen shrugged before she left the kitchen and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

 

Root winced, returning to the living room and slipping into the sheets of the pull-out bed. It seemed colder in the room somehow, and Root could see the city lights blinking against the ceiling and she stared, her heart beating too wild for her to fall asleep. She tossed and turned for an hour before she finally gave up, thinking of that little pill waiting for her on the countertop.

 

As soon as she entered the kitchen she noticed a bottle of red wine beside the refrigerator and felt her chest tightening. She thought of Sameen’s rules and tried to forget the bottle as she quickly filled herself a glass of water, but it seemed like it was nagging her, because the wine was just there, and could be so easily opened. She tried to remember all the many, painful times she had thrown up today, tried to associate the burn in her throat to the one the wine would create. Root turned her attention towards the pill instead, and frowned, realising she still had no idea what it was.

 

With a low voice, she whispered almost shyly; “can you tell me what this is?”

 

_Ten milligrams of Diazepam_ , her implant buzzed and she felt tears of relief in her eyes, as if suddenly Root wasn’t alone, as if someone was keeping watch over her.

 

“Thank you,” she muttered, swallowing the pill and returning to the couch rapidly. She slipped under the covers, shivering, and waited for sleep to come.

 

When it finally did, it was filled with nightmares that left her sweaty and uncomfortable, and Root woke up sobbing inexplicably, alone and cold, and noticed that only three hours had passed. She spent the rest of the night trembling in her bed, with that voice in the back of her head, telling her there was no point in staying, really. That she should just give up already, just take her things and go.

 

It seemed easy, so easy, but Root knew the Machine was watching her, and therefore she stayed.

 

When Sameen finally woke up hours later, relief poured through Root’s veins. After she had swallowed another pill under Sameen’s careful stare, Root fell asleep again, with a heavy slumber that put her mind to rest.


	7. March (Part 3)

Every seven hours or so, Sameen gave her a pill, and Root swallowed it without question. It calmed her symptoms for a few hours, made her exhaustion more bearable, as if it was turning down the volume. She slept most of the times until she would become restless, sweating and feeling like her body was going to give out, and then Sameen would bring her a glass of water and never say anything. Root had found it reassuring at first, Sameen’s silence. Now it seemed only condemning and heavy.

 

The mood swings, she still couldn’t control; Root wanted to laugh and then cry in a matter of minutes, and she tried to keep it inside, hiding the storm that rocked her as if she was nothing but a raft in the middle of an ocean. It was harder when Sameen looked at her with that cold stare, like Root had it coming, in a way. There was no pity in her eyes now, no warmth either. Now Sameen only sighed loudly and ignored her, and Root wondered how it was possible that she felt so tiny and yet, like she was taking too much space.

 

She tossed and turned in silence, barely able to keep anything down. She emptied her stomach over and over again, slowly turning into nothing but a shell. Every time, she returned to the pull-out bed shivering, with the taste of that mint toothpaste lingering in her mouth, making her ill all over again.

 

“He’s in Chester, you know,” Sameen told Root with preamble, sitting on the edge of the mattress, her jaw clenched with a serious look on her face.

 

Root frowned, fisting the bed sheets nervously. “Who?” she asked, pretending not to know, trying to stall a conversation she really didn’t want to have.

 

“Your father,” Sameen said, barely looking at her. When she finally did, her gaze was warmer than it had been all day, yet Root didn’t like it one bit.

 

“I don’t have a father,” Root argued, not for the first time. It wasn’t something she wanted to discuss, not something she wanted to think about. It seemed to her like the room was spinning out of control and she took a deep breath before she closed her eyes, desperate to regain some sense of normalcy.

 

Sameen sighed, impatient. “Look, this all started when you saw him again,” she argued, but Root cut her off.

 

“No,” she disagreed, irritation rising in her chest, taking over. She raised her head to stare into Sameen’s eyes, bitter and furious. “This all started because _you_ couldn’t stop staring at me like you loved me,” she nearly yelled, and her eyes widened at her choice of words. Panic seeped into her chest, like a relentless itch inside her ribcage. Sameen’s surprised expression quickly turned into anger.

 

“I didn’t,” Sameen answered without a doubt, rising from the bed and staring down on Root. She seemed like she was about to storm off, but then she stopped and turned around, running a hand through her hair. She breathed out loudly before she continued; “maybe you acted weird before you saw him,” she conceded, shaking her head, “but you weren’t drinking then.”

 

Root knew Sameen was right, but she couldn’t say so. She wanted her to get angry, wished that Sameen would lose her patience, just this once. “How would you even know?” she challenged, “I was barely ever here.”

 

“And whose fault was that Root?” Sameen asked in annoyance, but Root couldn’t find the answer. The truth was deafening; it was Root’s doing, all of it really, hers alone. With Sameen, she had wanted more than just sex, and at the same time, panicked at the thought of anything meaningful. She had been on the fence about everything, snaking her way into Sameen’s life and then trying to run out, and she had lost everything in the process. She knew that now, but she didn’t like to think about it.

 

“He’s not important,” Root brought the conversation back to a less dangerous subject, even though she really didn’t want to be talking about her father. Just the thought of him meeting Sameen was bad enough; she sighed.

 

“He’s your father,” Sameen repeated, and before Root could reply anything, she added; “I know you don’t think of him like that, but he is.”

 

Root looked away. Biologically, there was no denying that the man they had left behind in Lancaster, this bleeding stranger on the asphalt was her father. But Root had grown alone with her mother and went through hell with her, and she had repeated all her life that this man didn’t exist, as if Root had just appeared on her mother’s doorstep one day. The thought of him was just too painful, because if he was real, if he did exist, then he had abandoned Root, leaving her alone with _her_ , and that was just too much to bear.

 

“At some point you’re going to have to confront that,” Sameen challenged, and Root didn’t want her to be right.

 

“I’m not driving up there and meeting him,” Root argued, pulling the bed sheets up to her chin, desperate for some heat, or maybe just a place to hide. She felt like a child refusing to take their medicine and she hated the analogy, hated how Sameen made her feel like she wasn’t anything on her own, like she wasn’t able to do anything by herself, but it was true, really. Root wasn’t anything without her and she felt tears gathering again.

 

Sameen only sighed. “I’m not telling you to,” she muttered, a bit less angrily than before.

 

When Root didn’t reply anything, Sameen shook her head. “Look, you do what you want,” she continued, annoyed. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t die while you quit drinking.”

 

Root bit her lip, her heart beating fast. “Good luck with that,” she answered bitterly, like she didn’t really care whether or not she made it through.

 

Sameen groaned. “Do you think this is funny?” she seemed really angry this time and Root felt her chest tightening. “Do you think I’m enjoying myself, looking at you being a miserable shit?”

 

Root shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She knew all the words would turn into sobs anyway; she didn’t seem to be able to hold up any conversation without ending it in tears, these days.

 

“You know, maybe I did like you at one point,” Sameen said, hesitating on the word _like_ , as if it wasn’t exactly the right word, but she would never use the other, especially not when talking about Root. “But look at you right now, Root... You’re nothing like before.”

 

Root couldn’t answer that. Her throat was tight shut and she felt her cheeks burning, her ears buzzing in shame and she wished that she could hide, or that she could run away; wished she could just rest for a moment, just have a drink and forget this moment ever happened, but she couldn’t, she had promised to stay sober, and for what?

 

She didn’t know, now. Wasn’t sure she ever had a reason other than for Sameen, but if Sameen wanted nothing to do with her – and really, Root couldn’t reproach her that – than what was the point?

 

“I know,” she admitted in a whisper.

 

There was a moment of silence in which Root looked out the window, hoping the conversation was over, wishing with all her heart that she could just sleep again and forget about everything.

 

“What does the Machine think of all this?” Sameen asked, and Root swallowed hard.

 

“She’s not talking to me,” she replied, even though she knew that if she asked, the Machine would speak. But the last thing she remembered her saying was that _severe childhood trauma and lack of family support increased the risk in drug dependency and alcoholism_ , and Root didn’t want to think of that. It felt limiting and suffocating, and she had done her best to be someone else, someone better.

 

Sam Groves had worked all her life to rewrite the bad code she had been born with and live apart from others, not like her mother had done but like only _Root_ could. She remembered all those years playing games and cons, manipulating people, trading money and lives like she was toying with pawns, and felt sick. It seemed only worse now that she wanted to go back to that version of Root, desperately wishing she could once again stop caring because whatever _this_ was, it wasn’t happiness; it certainly wasn’t bliss.

 

It was suffering, everything hard and painful, hell really, all alone on Sameen’s couch even though Sameen was sitting beside her again, staring at Root like she was waiting for an answer. Root realised that Sameen must have said something, asked something, but Root hadn’t been listening.

 

Instead of replying, Root just looked out the window until Sameen sighed.

 

“Fine,” Sameen spoke again. “You don’t want to talk to me; that’s alright, I get that.”

 

Root wanted to thank her for leaving her in peace, but she knew something else was coming. She could hear it in Sameen’s voice, the way she twisted the words at the tip of her tongue like she was about to say something she didn’t really want to.

 

“But you can’t do this on your own,” Sameen continued, and she suddenly sounded so tired. “You need to talk to someone who’s been through it before.”

 

Root frowned. “You want me to have a sponsor?” she asked, surprised. “To hang out in some church’s basement, having coffee and donuts with other drunks? To admit how I’m powerless and how only God can help me now, and then cry over my traumatic childhood while the crowd nods in agreement, is that what you want?”

 

Sameen rolled her eyes. “I don’t care what you do exactly,” she argued, “but I know with these things, you’re supposed to have someone to talk to.”

 

There wasn’t anything Root wanted to say, anything she would ever wish to share, but still, it tugged at her heart to think that Sameen wouldn’t be the person she would talk to, if she ever chose to do so. It wasn’t that Sameen wouldn’t listen, really; it was that Root couldn’t stop from irking at her every question. She reacted strongly every time Sameen’s eyes landed on her, Sameen’s voice bringing Root only hurt and shame. It was impossible to go through a conversation with her without Root desperately longing to break one of the rules – no matter which one.

 

“I asked Fusco and he said he will help,” Sameen spoke in a rush, as if trying to hide the name in the sentence, and Root lifted an eyebrow.

 

“Lionel?” Root repeated, like she couldn’t believe what she had just heard. “You want me and Lionel to, what? Share stories?”

 

Sameen sighed in annoyance before she stood up once again. “I don’t care if you become friends and end up holding each other’s hands, Root. You’re talking to Fusco and that’s it.”

 

“You keep adding rules, Shaw,” Root complained, crossing her arms in front of her like a barricade. “I don’t see how you expect me to follow them.”

 

Sameen shook her head. “If you’re not happy with the way I deal with things,” she grunted, “you’re welcome to leave anytime.”

 

Root glared at her angrily, even though she knew Sameen was right. There was something wrong with Root, something she couldn’t voice yet but that she would have to, at some point. For the moment, all Root wanted was to stop thinking, to stop feeling like she had no control over her life, and yet she found comfort in Sameen’s rules and orders, a strange peace at the thought of letting Sameen make decisions for her.

 

She just had to follow Sameen’s instructions, Root quietly repeated to herself as Sameen left the room, and everything would be fine.

 

It was like sailing home, Root thought as she closed her eyes, using Sameen as her compass.

 

 

[...]

 

 

This time, Root woke up without any nausea, and already she felt a little lighter. She noticed the sun slowly setting down on the city and she decided not to check what time it was, thinking it would probably be better to lose the count of hours anyway. It was just one other thing she had no control over, and Root breathed down deeply, trying to erase the traces of panic appearing inside her.

 

Instead of letting another wave of emotion crash into her, Root focused on the strange sounds she heard from the office space at the back of Sameen’s apartment. Curiosity dragged her out of the warmth of her bed, and Root walked down the corridor without making a noise, realising there was something she needed to say. Something she had kept to herself so far, not daring a conversation that she guessed would turn into a fight again.

 

The door was open and yet Root knocked on the door frame, trying a faint smile when Sameen looked up from what she was doing – sharpening the edge of her blades silently. Sameen glared at Root like she was bothering her in the middle of something important, almost sacred.

 

Root hesitated only for a second. “I’m sorry,” she simply admitted, looking at the floor instead of Sameen, hoping the few words would be enough to convey what she meant.

 

Sameen cleared her throat, hand stilling on the knife’s handle. “Sorry for what?”

 

Root sighed, biting her lip in worry before she took a deep breath. “I just mean,” she walked in, nose scrunching up at the strange smell that lingered in the room. She stopped a few steps away from Sameen. “If you need me to leave, you should just say the word.”

 

She felt the atmosphere in the room switching uncomfortably, Sameen suddenly standing up, leaving the knife of the table. “Root, what’s wrong?” she asked with a frown, voice mixed with annoyance and concern.

 

Root smiled, cheeks reddening as she held back the tears. “Everything?”

 

“That’s not an answer,” Sameen replied in irritation.

 

Eyes glancing at the sharpened blade, Root nodded. “I don’t want to be that person,” she forced herself to continue, despite the lump in her throat that hurt even more with every word. “That person who’s a weight for everyone else.”

 

Sameen sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say Root,” she admitted, crossing her arms in front of her. “But you’ve got no place to go.”

 

Root flinched.

 

“I don’t mean it like that,” Sameen looked away as she cleared her throat. “I mean, I’d rather have you here than not knowing if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.”

 

Confusion spread over Root’s traits while she lifted her gaze to meet Sameen’s. “Why would I be dead in a ditch somewhere?” she asked almost naively, and Sameen gritted her teeth.

 

“Well you disappeared for two months Root,” she barked back angrily. “What was I supposed to think?”

 

Root swallowed hard, feeling like she had just been slapped. “You didn’t say,” she muttered like an apology.

 

“What was I supposed to say?” Sameen got furious, her anger rolling out of her in waves that crashed against Root, making her shiver. “It doesn’t even matter now.”

 

“It does,” Root quickly argued. Her heart ran wild beats in her chest as she gathered what little courage she had left. “I’m sorry, Sameen.”

 

“Well if you’re sorry, _Root_ ,” Sameen spoke the name as if it didn’t mean anything anymore, “just fucking act like it.”

 

 

[...]

 

 

Root sighed for what felt like the hundredth time, her throat tightening almost painfully. Her hands were shaking again and her palms were sweaty, despite the coldness that had seeped into her, creating goose bumps up her arms under the large sweater. No matter how hard she tried, Root just couldn’t get it done right. She wiped the wet nail polish from her nails and closed the small bottle angrily, frustrated that her body would betray her like that. She felt exhausted and there were tears in her eyes as she pulled the blankets over her legs, trying to make herself scarce when Sameen entered the living room.

 

“What’s wrong?” Sameen asked with a frown, although she seemed more annoyed than concerned.

 

Root glanced towards the nail polish and the small stack of tissue tarnished with black paint, and looked away. She cleared her throat, hoping her eyes weren’t still red from crying. “Nothing.”

 

There wasn’t a sound in the room for the longest of times, until Sameen came to sit beside her. She grabbed the bottle of nail polish, glaring at Root.

 

“If you tell anyone I did that,” she warned, “I’ll punch you again.”

 

As Sameen twisted the cap open, Root smiled, her heart beating loudly in her chest. “Promises, promises,” she whispered, almost afraid to speak as if that would break the charm.

 

Sameen rolled her eyes, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, facing Root. She placed a clean tissue on her knee and dipped the tiny brush in the bottle, and Root couldn’t help but see the meticulous attention Sameen usually reserved for cleaning her guns. She grabbed Root’s right hand almost tenderly, and the brush unhurriedly ran down the nail of Root’s index, cold. Root breathed out lightly, feeling the tension leaving her body as the black nail polish spread on her fingernails. Sameen’s proximity was strangely dizzying and Root closed her eyes, muscles slowly relaxing.

 

“I miss it,” she whispered warmly, but Sameen barely looked up from her work. The silence encouraged Root to go on. “Do you think about Prague sometimes?”

 

Sameen winced. “Root,” she warned, letting the sound trail like she didn’t want to hear anything else.

 

“I know,” she swallowed hard, allowing the memory to return even though it seemed so foreign to this moment. That night had been rushed, frantic and painful, and today everything was sluggish and strangely measured, like time almost stood still. “I don’t mean the pain,” Root adds then, opening her eyes to find Sameen’s, and the brush froze on the fingernail. Root’s heart knocked against her ribcage so hard she worried she would faint, and so she looked away. “I felt safe.”

 

Sameen frowned as she cleared her throat. “Well, you weren’t,” she insisted, pressing Root’s thumb like she was trying to convey something just by the touch.

 

They had never truly spoken about that night before, but Root didn’t need Sameen to say what she thought of it. She had already heard it in Prague, in the way Sameen insisted to look at her shoulder, how she allowed Root to say yes and then no, just like that, giving Root all the power even though Sameen was the one inflicting the pain. They had shared many other similar nights in the months afterwards, but it had never been the same as that first evening. That night where Sameen had been truly worried that her caring for Root wouldn’t be enough to stop her anger from hurting her.

 

Root had never felt that way towards Sameen, she realised now. She had never wondered if her restlessness would outgrow her affections for Sameen, and hurt her in the process. It didn’t seem fair to Sameen, somehow.

 

“I think I was,” Root shook her head. She noticed the quiet tension leaving Sameen as she seemed to absorb the information, and they felt silent again.

 

Sameen finished with Root’s right hand and absently blew air on it, the warm breath turning cold on the fingernails, and Root’s cheeks reddened as she shivered. Sameen didn’t notice, focused on her tasked, and simply switched to the other hand.

 

“I never had this,” Root confessed.

 

She thought about Hanna then, the both of them locked in Root’s bedroom as she helped her pick a color. Hanna always chose the pink nail polish and insisted on painting each of Root’s nails in a different every color, and every time Root just let her, even though her eyes were set on the black. When Hanna disappeared, Root didn’t hold back anymore. She stopped calling herself Sam and threw away every other bottle; it all belonged to someone else, someone Root would never be again.

 

“You never had what?” Sameen sounded annoyed, but Root detected just a hint of curiosity. Then again, she sobered up; maybe she was just imagining it.

 

“Someone I felt safe with,” Root replied in a low voice, her eyes searching for Sameen’s. When they met she felt a needle piercing through her heart, making it painful to breathe, and she flinched when Sameen let out a small sigh. “I know, I wasn’t...” Root looked away before she flashed a nervous smile. “I wasn’t coming on to you or anything.”

 

Sameen lifted an eyebrow. “Well that’s good, because as far as flirting goes, yours is pretty lame.”

 

Their eyes met again, but this time warmth spread through Root’s chest, soothing as if they had just settled on some unspoken agreement. Root stopped talking then, revelling on the tight hold of Sameen’s fingers on her hand. As the nail polish slowly dried, the scent familiar and comforting, Root closed her eyes again, quietly recording every detail of that moment in her mind.


	8. April

The first time they got together at Sameen’s request, Root told Fusco in excruciating details seven ways she could kill him with the spoon he kept raking against his cup of coffee, and then he left with the threat of arresting her for impersonating a FBI agent on more than one occasion.

 

On their second meeting, Fusco didn’t say a word, and neither did Root. Instead she glared at the decor of the old truck stop, curling her lips in distaste at the greasy table and country music. After an hour of staring at the cheesy decorations on the wall, they called it a draw, and left their separate ways.

 

Today was the third time they had surrendered to Sameen’s orders, and Fusco was late. After Root asked, the Machine informed her that it was because he hadn’t planned for the traffic on Queensboro Bridge – why he insisted on taking that route instead of the 495 was beyond her. Either way, Root’s coffee was getting cold, and her patience quickly vanishing.

 

Fusco finally arrived, fifteen minutes later than he was supposed to, with a stain on his tie and rings of sweat under his armpits. Root tried not to glare.

 

“You know, for a cop, you burn a lot of red lights,” she mocked him as he took place on the other side of the booth, and the diner’s waitress – _Doris_ , the name tag announced – brought him a warm cup of coffee immediately, smiling at him widely, and suddenly the reasons why Fusco kept insisting that they meet here appeared very clear to Root.

 

“Yeah yeah, had to get here on time,” Fusco muttered, taking one look at the menu, although they never ordered food anyway. “Or your girlfriend would’ve killed me.”

 

Root flinched. “Shaw’s not my girlfriend,” she repeated as she always did, but her voice wavered slightly, like some part of her still believed there was something between them, even though Sameen had been adamant that there wasn’t.

 

“Whatever you two psychopaths call it,” he retorted, barely looking at her, his fingers nervously tapping the side of his cup. His eyes followed the waitress around and Root leaned in, smirking.

 

“What are you looking at?” she mocked, and Fusco grunted, returning his attention to his coffee.

 

He added two sugars in and Root shook her head. “Your doctor said you should be careful with that,” she warned, even though she really didn’t know. These days, the Machine didn’t tell her any information that Root didn’t ask for specifically, and it wasn’t like she had been inquiring about Fusco’s health.

 

By the look on his face, Root knew she had read him right. “Are you done?” he groaned, impatient. “Because we’re not here to talk about me, Cocoa Puffs.”

 

Root didn’t like the idea that she was here to _share_ ; she wasn’t sure why she had agreed to this in the first place, apart from the fact that Sameen had made it one of the rules. Fusco didn’t add anything, evidently waiting for her to talk, and a heavy silence fell between them, charged with Root’s obvious tension, making it impossible to breathe. In the crowded and loud diner Root suddenly felt small, unimportant. A bug under a giant foot. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but words wouldn’t come out.

 

After five minutes, she sighed and pulled out a couple of bills from her pockets. She slipped the money towards the edge of the table, ignoring Fusco’s inquisitive stare.

 

“This,” she hesitated, knowing it would be breaking one of the rules, “this is definitely not going to work for me.”

 

She forced a smile and shifted on her seat, ready to take her leave. It felt like a weight had been lifted and she was startled when Fusco’s hand covered hers, warm and rough. She glared at him angrily and he rolled his eyes, moving apart.

 

“Okay, okay,” he agreed with a shrug, “but you’re wasting good coffee here.”

 

Root laughed bitterly to hide the tears that had gathered in her eyes. “You have to be kidding.”

 

He took a sip from his cup, as if to prove a point, and ended up grimacing. Root raised an eyebrow, and he shook his head. “I just burned my tongue.”

 

“Sure, of course you did,” Root didn’t believe him for a second; tight-lipped, she nodded absently.

 

Fusco opened his mouth to say something and then stopped himself. Root frowned. “What?” she asked, and insisted when he didn’t reply.

 

“You just reminded me of someone,” he said, and it felt like a ghost was sitting beside Root, its absence invasive and chilling.

 

It didn’t take much for Root to guess who Fusco was talking about. “Carter?” she asked with a slight hesitation. It was a name she never spoke aloud; in fact the last time she had talked about her seemed like forever ago, in Sameen’s old house one night, when they had drank a bit too much. The resurfacing memory was both comforting and frightening; Root wished with everything she was that she could go back to that house now, hide there with Sameen and pretend time had stood still since then, and yet it was impossible to imagine it, really, even for a second.

 

“She was my partner, you know?” Fusco had continued, but Root barely listened. “She was so good at her job, too.”

 

“She was a good person,” Root whispered without really noticing. It had been so long since the last time she felt like she could be one of those.

 

Thoughts of Carter inevitably brought Root back to her time in the Faraday cage, and that chaotic day where Finch, Reese, Fusco and Shaw’s world had tipped over. Root couldn’t get the thought out of her head, that if she had escaped that night, she might have been able to save Carter.

 

Although she had no doubt that Carter’s blood wasn’t on her hands, Root couldn’t shake the feeling that, had it been Sameen imprisonned in that library, she would have gotten out without a second thought, and come to help no matter what. Root guessed she just wasn’t that kind of person.

 

Not one of the good ones.

 

Fusco didn’t notice her trouble; instead, he smiled warmly, his gaze falling upon the table between them. “She really was.”

 

Silence fell between them again, heavy and unperturbed until he cleared his throat. “I never was,” he shrugged, but Root heard the pinch of hurt in his voice.

 

“She didn’t like me very much,” he tried to laugh, and Root cleared her throat to stop her train of thoughts, trying to hide the lump swelling in there.

 

“I’m not surprised, Lionel,” she mocked, and he glared at her.

 

“She thought I was a dirty cop,” he explained, brushing it away with the back of his hand.

 

Root frowned. “Well, you were one,” she stated, her eyes boring into his. She wondered if he would quiver or deny it, but he didn’t.

 

“I was dirty,” Fusco agreed. “I never really was one of the good guys. Not sure that I am, now, either,” he admitted, and Root left her gaze return to the table, toying with an envelope of sugar nervously. She didn’t like this, didn’t like all the truth that came running out of his mouth just like she hated when Cyrus Wells kept going about the plan he believed in.

 

She didn't like to think that she might have missed something, somewhere along the way. That some people saw things that she didn’t. That she could never see.

 

“I try to be,” Fusco continued, “for her.”

 

Root shrugged, but Fusco didn’t mind, and went on anyway. “She was a real good person, Carter. The kind you only see in stories, you know? I didn’t think nobody existed, that would be so kind,” his voice wavered a bit and he straightened his back. “But she had a temper too.”

 

At that Root lifted her gaze. “She did?”

 

“That woman could’ve burned the city down if she wanted to,” Fusco smiled. “And everyone would’ve let her, too.”

 

Root grinned; she would let Sameen burn down the whole country a thousand times over, just to see that look on her face.

 

“You loved her,” Root hesitated, the ghost still sitting beside her, albeit more quietly.

 

Fusco shook his head. “It was more than that,” he breathed out. “I admired her.”

 

Root averted her eyes once more. She had never really admired anyone before. Everyone seemed to her like they were lower than her, not as intelligent, not as fast, not as brilliant. In her life she had rarely looked up to anyone as a model, but now that she thought of it, the Machine was hers, in a way. And Finch, in another. And Sameen too, somehow. She swallowed hard, fighting back her emotions.

 

Root had been convinced that she was alone, and yet now there were people around her, people who cared. People who worried.

 

“I wanted to be the best man I could ever be,” Fusco finished his coffee in one quick drink. “She inspired me to do that.”

 

He leaned over the table and Root felt irritation creeping in, the gesture somewhat invasive even though she knew he meant no harm.

 

“You’ve got to find what drives you,” Fusco told her with a sigh, “and hold onto that.”

 

He left the table then, and Root finally breathed out, feeling the tears coming back and hating herself for being so emotional about everything lately. She focused on keeping her trouble inside, hiding it from the other customers as she stood up and walked out the diner. In the parking lot, she tried to forget Fusco’s words, uncertain if she was even allowed to be driven by the Machine, and Finch, and Sameen.

 

It seemed like even that was asking too much of them.

 

 

[...]

 

 

It was a habit they had easily fallen into, over the course of the last few weeks; Sameen would cook, and Root would clean the kitchen afterwards. Elbows deep in the sink, Root washed the dishes without a word, revelling on the hot water that reddened her skin. The light aching buzzed pleasantly in her nerves, diverting her thoughts from her depressing memories, keeping her away from that nearly painful need to drown the sadness that threatened to swallow her whole.

 

Focused as she was, she didn’t really hear Sameen walking in behind her, and nearly jumped when she spoke a few seconds later.

 

“I think you should get your own place,” Sameen suggested like it was nothing, and Root felt her heart skipping a beat. She didn’t reply anything, her eyes safely anchored in the water. She studied the small bubbles of the soap, creating foam running up her arms.

 

Root had known that this moment was coming, had felt it in the way Sameen looked at her lately. The concerned, sometimes almost clinical stares had turned into curious glances, as if Sameen was surprised to find Root still there; as if Sameen thought Root would move out on her own someday, without a word or a note to explain where she was going. Root had thought about it a few times too; she had pictured grabbing her few belongings and trying to make it by herself, but it scared her more than anything. Instead, she preferred not to think about it, not to count the weeks she was spending in Sameen’s apartment, sharing her space like she belonged there.

 

“You can’t stay here,” Sameen repeated, voice slightly warmer, coming closer to Root and leaning against the counter. Root sighed as she turned around, knowing Sameen would insist until Root finally looked at her. “I just don’t want you to get any ideas.”

 

“I’m not,” Root protested, pulling her hands out of the water and drying them on her pants absently. “I’m not getting any ideas.”

 

Sameen didn’t seem convinced, and perhaps she was right not to be. Root had noticed the shift in Sameen’s behavior just like she studied everything Sameen did and said with a reverence she usually kept for the Machine and her puzzles.

 

Besides, Root knew that even if she hadn't been expecting things between them to go back to the way they were before, her chest still tightened painfully every time Sameen came home late. Pretending to sleep, Root always tried to guess what had kept Sameen away for the night, whether it was a number or something else, and every time it was a bit harder not to ask the Machine where Sameen had been. Root felt that it was a line she had no right to cross, an unspoken rule she had given herself, and that she was getting closer and closer to breaking.

 

“Well, you look better now,” Sameen continued, and Root couldn’t help but agree. She couldn’t live at Sameen’s for the rest of her life, she couldn’t impose herself like that. Sameen had been kind enough to let her rest here for a bit, but now she had to go and she didn’t know what that meant, really. What Root was supposed to do now, now that she was _better_ , no matter what that meant.

 

“I know,” Root agreed, forcing a smile even though her throat tightened so hard, it buzzed painfully all the way to her cheeks. “Plus you probably can’t wait to have me out of your hair,” she joked, but neither of them laughed. She averted her eyes when Sameen frowned with concern. “Bring your dates home,” she continued, but the teasing came out bitter and angry.

 

“I just don’t think this is healthy,” Sameen sighed. “We’re not...“

 

Root shook her head, running her hand through her hair. The wet fingers pulled on her curls, the slight pain on her scalp relieving a bit of the tension. “I know,” she repeated, cutting Sameen off even though she knew that irritated her a lot. When she did look up, though, Sameen didn’t look angry.

 

In the end, Root didn’t know what made her cringe more; the idea that she had to leave and nowhere to go, or the pity that lurked in the back of Sameen’s eyee, like she was sorry that she was kicking Root to the curb and begging for her not to come back.

 

“I can help you look for a place if you want,” Sameen suggested and it felt like a consolation price. Root realised that Sameen was right, she was getting ideas; had been feeling like they were mending, coming back together slowly but they weren’t, not really, and Root had to accept that. What they had, what Root felt, she was holding onto it by staying there, but it wasn’t real.

 

She forced another smile. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Sameen sighed. “Root,” she started like she was annoyed or maybe just giving up, and Root cleared her throat.

 

“No, really,” she insisted, pushing back the tears and pulling up a strong face. “I’ll be fine, Sameen.”

 

She ignored the concerned looks thrown her way, placing both her hands on Sameen’s shoulders. “Trust me.”

 

 

[...]

 

 

The music wasn’t great, the place smelled and looked like there was mold in the floor and walls, and the woodwork creaked under her footsteps. Root tried to ignore the loud sound it made as she reached the bar, sitting on a stool and gazing at the rows of liquor bottles. There was nothing fancy there, most of the labels were cheap and there wasn’t a large selection, but she had expected as much. She hadn’t come for the choice, anyway; it was just the closest place to Sameen’s apartment.

 

Besides, Root knew Sameen would be caught dead before she’d willingly enter a crappy place like this.

 

It made her feel guilty, and strangely, as if she was being watched. Root looked around discreetly, but couldn’t find a security camera; still, she felt like there was something lurking over her shoulder, spying on her every move.

 

“Buy you a drink?” a man smiled her way, and she shook her head.

 

“Not one for company,” she replied, and whether it was her exhausted traits or her cold voice, it did the trick. The man returned his attention to the hockey game on the television screen above the bar, and Root leaned on the counter, reading the labels to keep herself occupied.

 

It got the barman’s attention, and he left his conversation with a customer that most definitely looked like a regular to Root. “What can I getcha?” he grinned, throwing a white rag on his shoulder.

 

Root swallowed hard, her heart beating fast. She desperately wanted a drink and this whole place reeked of beer, but she had promised. It was Sameen’s first rule: _no drinking_.

 

“Could you just give me water for now?” she asked as she started to get nauseous.

 

She didn’t know how far she wanted to go, didn’t know if she wanted to give up or not. Root thought Sameen didn’t need to know if she decided to have one drink; what was the problem with that? But then again, Sameen would find out. No matter how long Root would take to sober up or how much perfume she ended up putting on, Sameen would know. Root was sure of that.

 

“Waitin’ for someone, huh?” the barman winked, and she nodded with a smile, hoping he could not see the internal struggle she was having. How much she fought against the desire to ask for a drink instead.

 

He filled a glass with water, added a few ice cubes and a decorative umbrella on top. It dangled on the side of the glass, threatening to fall in, but the man smiled as he pushed the glass towards her and Root felt warmer than she was before. She smiled back before she grabbed the umbrella, toying with it nervously.

 

She didn’t know what had compelled her to walk in, and what stopped her from asking for a drink now. She felt confused and limited, ashamed and proud at the same time. She felt tears coming to her eyes and she sipped her water, looking at the door like she was ready to bolt, and then back at the bottles and imagining the burn in her throat. How good it would feel to numb everything again, to forget about the guilt and the sadness and just let go.

 

“What do you want?” Fusco barked into the phone, and Root barely had time to register that she had called him. She stared at her phone in confusion before she placed it back against her good ear.

 

“I’m at a bar,” Root started, not knowing what she wanted to say.

 

“Where?” Fusco asked, and she gave him the address just before he hung up. She wondered what it meant, what he was thinking of. Did he think she was getting drunk? Was he concerned? She didn’t really like the idea of anyone worrying for her, and yet it warmed her a bit, the thought that maybe Fusco had dropped some important case just to check up on her.

 

But in many ways, Root didn’t feel worthy of that. She didn’t think it was his job to help, just like it wasn’t Sameen’s. It was Root’s mess, it had always been, ever since she was a kid, really. And so it was Root’s job to clean it up. She had done so many things she wasn’t proud of, had gotten so many people killed, and that was her own weight to carry around, her own cross to bear. No one else was supposed to get caught in there, and she thought of her mother, and how she used to lean on Root when she was too drunk to walk properly, and how Root steadied her. Every time she called, Root rushed to her side.

 

She didn’t want to be that for anyone, but it seemed like she couldn’t stop herself. It seemed like it was all she knew how to do, what to be, now.

 

“Well I sure as hell wouldn’t be late if I had a date with you,” the barman had reappeared in front of her, and Root frowned, but ignored him.

 

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he leaned on the counter with a friendly smile. “You just look like you need cheering up.”

 

Root smiled and averted her eyes. “Maybe I do.”

 

“You know, I’m pretty good at that,” he pointed towards a machine filled with plush toys. He glanced at the other customers in the bar – his regular from before and the man who had spoken to Root – and seemed to make a decision. He crossed over to Root’s side of the bar in one quick jump, and headed straight towards the machine. Root followed absently, eager to think of anything other than what was plaguing her. “Okay, let’s see. How about that dinosaur?”

 

Root nodded, and the barman inserted coins in the machine, concentrating on getting the green dinosaur. The grip ran up the plush toy’s neck but didn’t catch it, and Root chuckled. “So you’re not _that_ great,” she mocked him, and the barman glared at her, although he couldn’t help but smile.

 

“Well you go and try, then,” the barman added, slipping another coin in the machine and stepping back.

 

Root grabbed the handle and positioned it just a bit further apart, and the grip grabbed the dinosaur’s back and dangled it above the rest of the toys, before it dropped it in the slot.

 

The barman blinked. “Looks like you got him by the ass,” he laughed, grabbing the plush toy and giving it to Root. “Beginner’s luck?” he suggested and she shook her head. “Well then, _you_ have a gift with machines.”

 

That got to her like a punch in her gut, and she didn’t say anything as he returned towards the bar, not noticing the effect of his words on her. She brushed a finger just above her implant, feeling her eyes watering, and wondered how long it had been since the last time the Machine had spoken to her without Root asking her to.

 

These days, it felt more like begging.

 

The front door opened and Fusco walked in, staring at her like he was trying to determine if she had had a drink or not. She returned to her stool, shrugging like she hadn’t called him in the first place.

 

“Hello, Lionel,” she shoved the plush toy in his hand as he sat beside her. “Here, I got you something to remind you of your age.”

 

The barman stared at them both, as if he was trying to figure out what their relationship was. Irritated, Fusco ignored him, his thumb absently choking the dinosaur’s neck.

 

“I thought you were in trouble,” Fusco said angrily.

 

Root looked away, guilt suddenly tightening her chest. The barman took the opportunity to ask what they wanted to drink, and Fusco quickly ordered two virgin cocktails, glaring at Root. She flinched when the barman left, feeling the weight of Fusco’s eyes falling on her shoulders.

 

“Wanna tell me what you’re doing here?” he asked angrily.

 

“Testing the limits,” Root suggested, but she wasn’t sure exactly. She hadn’t really thought; she had just entered the bar, and found herself unable to leave. Fusco’s traits seemed to relax a bit.

 

“And?” he pushed, rising an eyebrow.

 

“And I didn’t drink anything, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied, frustrated. Somehow she didn’t want him here, and still couldn’t figure out why she had called him to begin with. Fusco clearly didn’t want to be here with her, she obviously didn’t see him as a friend, so why would she reach out to him?

 

“I wasn’t asking that,” he replied in annoyance, and thanked the barman when he brought back their drinks. The barman lurked a little before he finally left, intimidated by Fusco’s angry eyes.

 

“Then what _were_ you asking?” Root sighed, running a hand through her hair, exhausted. “Because your communication skills are brilliant as always, Lionel.”

 

He didn’t appreciate her sarcasm. “Hey, Cuckoo’s Nest,” he leaned closer again, trying to get her attention. “You’re the one who called me, okay?”

 

Root shrugged. “So?”

 

“So that tells me you got something on your mind,” Fusco started, sipping his drink and turning on his stool, his eyes less intent. “Something you wanna share.”

 

“With you?” Root laughed, toying with her glass. “I highly doubt that.”

 

Fusco frowned. “You know what I think?” he started, and ignored Root when she rolled her eyes. “I think it doesn’t matter who you say it to. You just gotta say it.”

 

Root felt her heart skipping a beat. He wasn’t wrong, she knew as much. It felt heavy inside her, the thought of her previous discussion with Sameen, and she had no idea how to handle the tension it created within her. She had thought of drowning it but it wasn’t what she wanted, not exactly; she wanted to get rid of it, but perhaps that wasn’t the way this time. It wasn’t like the Machine was available for a chat, either, and she felt too embarrassed to go to Finch.

 

“Shaw wants me to move out,” she let out after a deep breath. “She thinks it’s time I have my own place.”

 

“Little birdie leaving the nest, huh?” he smiled, nodding. “It’s a good thing.”

 

Root shook her head; of course he didn’t understand. Fusco waited a little bit before he insisted again.

 

“What’s wrong with that?” he frowned, throwing his looks in front of him, at the posters behind the bar instead of towards her. Root recognised the tactic, but it didn’t change anything to the fact that it was working; it put her more at ease, made her almost comfortable enough to speak. “Getting your place.”

 

But Root couldn’t bring herself to say it. She felt tears coming to her eyes again and looked away, hoping Fusco hadn’t seen them.

 

“You’re thinking she wants you out because you’re a bother,” he spoke in one breath and she turned to him, surprised he could tell what she was thinking. “Well, you _are_.”

 

Root bit down her lip, heart beating fast, throat tightening. Expecting a hit.

 

“You’re annoying, and crazy,” he sipped his drink. “And always complaining or sassing.”

 

Root frowned; it wasn’t the cheering up she was hoping for, but somehow Fusco was right. She wasn’t easy to live with. She had always known that. Her mother had said so, so many times before, so many years ago.

 

“But that’s not why she wants you to get your place,” Fusco cleared his throat, and Root flinched slightly. “You ever had a home?”

 

She laughed nervously, looking down at the woodwork of the counter, tracing the lines with the tip of her thumbnail. “Everyone has had a home, Lionel.”

 

“No, not everyone,” Fusco shook his head. “A home; a real one. A place you feel safe in. You ever had that?”

 

Root thought she felt safe with Sameen, hiding in her apartment, on her couch. Even more in her bedroom – but she stopped herself there. It wasn’t a place Root was allowed in anymore; it wasn’t something she could continue entertaining, the idea of being with Sameen. They were through, and done, just like Sameen had told Root many times over the course of the past weeks, but Root hadn’t listened. Root so rarely _listened_.

 

“A place that’s yours,” he added. “Hard to find, sometimes.”

 

Root swallowed hard, trying to ignore how she felt; like a failure, like she couldn’t do the most basic things. Just living with someone. Sharing someone's space without crowding them.

 

“Took me a long time to find one too,” he confessed. “And then when I did, I screwed up.”

 

Root looked at him then, puzzled, and he continued. “I had a home and a family, and everything I wanted since I was a kid. But I wasn’t the man I wanted to be. Didn’t know how to be that guy, either. So I fucked it up.”

 

She bit down her lower lip and stared at the bottles behind the bar. She thought of how she wanted so desperately to have a drink, how she wanted to forget and knew that it would be breaking the first rule, it would be breaking Sameen’s trust.

 

“You know what she’s asking of you?” he asked Root, and she knew he meant Sameen. “She just wants you to stop fucking up.”

 

Root nodded. He was right. That was the only thing Sameen was asking for, really, and Root wasn’t sure she could offer it, but suddenly she wanted to try. Fusco slipped a bill along the counter and then stood up.

 

“We done here?” he asked, and Root left her stool too.

 

“We are,” she muttered.

 


	9. May

It was a nice apartment in a nice neighborhood, with a nice view and everything about it was just that; _nice_. It made Root want to throw up every time she stepped in it, remembering the many places the Machine had sent her too over the years. She had slept in horrible flats with mold on the walls, in luxurious suites with bay windows as large as the room itself; in basements with rats and even in a barn once. Nothing had ever felt as foreign to her as this apartment.

 

Of course she blamed Fusco for her decision to rent it.

 

Root looked at the renovated kitchen and the sparkling new floors, and wondered why she had picked this one out of all of the others she had visited over the last two weeks. There was something about the way the sunlight entered the bedroom; getting trapped in the leaves of a tree, it danced in shadows on the white wall, and Root had loved it. Tired of searching she had rented it right away, pleased by the idea of not having to tell Sameen for the tenth time that she hadn’t found anything yet.

 

Now that she stood in her empty and somewhat cold apartment, Root didn’t like it all that much. Every little noise echoed off the walls and it felt like it would take forever to fill the space with furniture. She had done it many times before; create apartments for aliases and a whole décor to go with it, fitting the personality she had invented, but now that it was Root’s, she didn’t know what she wanted, where to start. She looked at the space and it seemed like a responsibility she hadn’t asked for.

 

She went from one room to the other, each time forgetting what she was looking for, until she finally sat down in her bedroom, back against the wall. She stared at the shadows of leaves that the tree, outside, painted almost warmly. After a few minutes of quiet, she finally pulled out her phone, and called Sameen.

 

“What’s the first thing I should buy?” she asked as soon as Sameen picked up the call, and heard gunshots in the background. Root felt her heart skipped a beat and she frowned, nervously waiting for Sameen’s voice to come on the line.

 

“Your timing is great as always Root,” Sameen complained, voice strained by effort – or hurt, Root wondered, although she preferred not to think of it.

 

“Are you in trouble?” she couldn’t help but worry, and relief flooded her veins when Sameen laughed lightly.

 

“No, _they are_ ,” she simply replied, and Root heard John’s voice in the background, saying there was only one left – she guessed (or at least she hoped) he meant shooters. Even with no idea where they were or what was happening on their end, when Root heard two close shots fired and then nothing, she knew the shootout was over. Still, it took a few more seconds before Sameen’s voice returned, breathing heavily. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

 

Root pouted even though there was no one there to see. “I wasn’t worried.”

 

She heard Sameen brush it off, and it turned her frown into a grin. “What was your question?”

 

Root’s heart picked up her pulse, its rhythm beating faster, wilder, as she remembered that she had no reason to call Sameen, apart from a strange need to hear her voice. These days, Root lived mostly in silence, barely crossing paths with Sameen and never talking when she spent time with Fusco. She felt like she had ran out of words to say, out of apologies to give.

 

“What’s the first thing I should buy? For the apartment, I mean,” it felt wrong to call it hers when it really wasn’t, and so Root never did.

 

“Bed,” Sameen replied rapidly before she muttered something to John. Root noted the difference between her initial grumpy answer, and the softer voice that repeated; “you should buy a bed.”

 

Root closed her eyes and breathed deeply, once again struggling with what to say. No flirting, they had agreed, and so she didn’t, even though she really wanted to. She imagined Sameen, sweaty and filled with adrenaline, with that spark in her eyes that made Root want to give her all the weapons and explosives she could find, and let Sameen burn down the whole country.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered instead.

 

Sameen simply let out a short, careless “sure”, before she hung up, and Root shoved the phone back in her pocket. She took a deep breath before she stood up again, ready to get to work. She had an apartment to furnish, and a life to get back on track.

 

 

[...]

 

 

At first it was honest curiosity, Root reasoned; she hacked into the prison’s network and found her father’s file, just to know what he had been charged with by the state of Pennsylvania. She ended up reading about his previous problems with the law – a few drunk and disorderly arrests when he was a teen, and then a robbery that had him sent to jail for the first time at the age of twenty-two. When he got out, he seemingly cleaned up his act, and didn’t get back in until years later. Root couldn’t help but look at the dates; she would’ve been six, then.

 

Distracted by the passing thought, Root couldn’t help but remember how her life was at that age. Those first years of school, she didn’t really have any friends. She remembered how lonely she felt then, but didn’t know the word yet. How humiliated she was the first time she realised no one had a home like hers. Then she had met Hanna, who had a father that could be just as mean as Root’s mother was, and yet Root hadn’t stopped feeling alone, because Hanna had a mother who was kind and sweet. A mother who soothed her bruises and made everything better again.

 

Root only worried every time her mother softened.

 

It would happen on the rare occasions when her mother left a mark on her that she couldn’t hide. Then Root would get sweets, or her mother would cook something, usually whatever was Root’s favorite dish at the time, and they would cuddle on the sofa and watch TV, glued together, and her mother would place a kiss over her head and tell her she loved her.

 

That calm would never last long.

 

_You know you have to behave._

 

_You know you shouldn’t make me angry._

Root remembered the rest too easily – the slaps, the punches, the screaming – and she stopped the train of thoughts by distracting herself with her father’s file once again. She learned that he had gotten out of jail that first time after only two years of his sentence, for good behavior. In his Chester file, there was a note mentioning that he was currently treated for cocaine addiction.

 

Root wondered if she was allowed to blame him for her own problems of substance abuse, but that would mean admitting they were linked. That they had something – maybe everything – in common.

 

It had been with a strange, almost morbid curiosity that she had glimpsed at the list of his allowed visitors, somehow searching for her own name. Or course if wasn’t there, but Root noticed his lawyer hadn’t visited once since he had gotten his sentence, and Root saw a window of opportunity.

 

It wouldn’t take her long to create an alias, but she took her time anyway. She didn’t know if it was because it felt good to have purpose again, to have something to do, or if it was because deep down, she didn’t really want to go. She tried not to think of the answer.

 

She drove to the prison two days later, shaking in uncomfortable clothes that she knew she would get rid of as soon as this was over. She offered the guards a false name and a fake ID, and uneventfully went through security with a worry nested in her gut despite having been in more dire situations. She didn’t know what it was exactly that was making her anxious, but when she saw her father in the visitors’ lounge, the feeling only got stronger, cutting the air from her lungs.

 

Chester was a minimum security prison, after all; there was no need for windows and phones to talk to prisoners, but Root still hoped that there would be. She had wished the distance between them would be there, a wall physically preventing him from breathing the same air, but it wasn’t. He simply sat at a table and waited, picking his nails lazily and Root felt her heart racing as she pictured turning around and running away – but then that would blow her cover, and she wouldn’t be able to do this again.

 

Instead, she took a deep breath and focused on being Grace Brewster, sitting across him with false confidence.

 

He frowned. “You’re not Grace Brewster,” he said once the guard had left their side.

 

“I’m fairly certain I am,” Root flashed a fake smile.

 

“No, I saw you before,” he insisted, lowering his voice. “You were with that chick, that night.”

 

Root had hoped that, with any luck, the shadows and the shock would’ve stopped him from remembering her. Then again, she should’ve known that people like her didn’t have the luxury of chance. Besides, someone like him – someone like her, Root grimaced – dealt with humans all the time; it came with the trade. No one could be discarded in the grand scheme of things, and the attention to details could mean everything when working a con.

 

Clearing her throat, Root leaned back and crossed her arms. “So what if I was there that night?”

 

He frowned. “Well you two ladies saved my life,” he leaned forward, his hand across the table almost reaching her, and Root keenly felt the invasion. She could see in his eyes how he studied her every reaction and she tried to do the same, but her heart was beating too fast and somehow she worried that he would just _know_.

 

“I’m glad I can thank you in person,” he added with a smile, and Root swallowed hard.

 

“You haven’t actually said thank you yet,” she twisted his words and it triggered a familiar sensation inside, like she was conning him in some way. It brought her some ease; the pretending, the alias, and Root sensed her confidence slowly coming back. “One would think you aren’t truly grateful.”

 

He smirked. “One would think that you saved my life for a reason,” he added almost proudly, like he was the one calling the shots. “I’ve been expecting this visit.”

 

Root flashed him a condescending smile. His file came back to mind, _in recovery of a cocaine addiction_ , but he looked fine to Root, he seemed healthy, way more than Root herself.

 

“I’m not giving up names,” he rushed with his arms closed, but there was a glimpse of expectation in his eyes and Root knew that if she had been looking for information, she would’ve gotten it from him in a second.

 

It didn’t sit well with her. “Doesn’t seem like there’s a lot on your mind at the moment,” Root started, averting her eyes. “Someone’s letting something in?”

 

The accusation didn’t pull the reaction she expected. Instead, he smirked. “You think I’d know about that?”

 

Root tried to hide her surprise by running a nervous hand in her hair. “I’d say you look very healthy for a recovering addict.”

 

He laughed loudly, and the more he did, the more Root felt like sinking in her chair and disappearing. “That’s all for show sweetheart,” he leaned against, his elbows resting on the table as he stared at Root. “You think I’m one of those losers numbing their brains? I’m just looking for the fastest way out.”

 

Trying not to show her discomfort, Root bit down her lower lip. She should have been relieved that they didn’t have this in common, this weakness she saw in herself, but she wasn’t. Instead she felt her cheeks reddening and her throat burning up.

 

Her father frowned. “What are you here for, then?”

 

It was a fair question, one that Root hoped she could answer, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know what had brought her here apart from the fact that she felt like she had to.

 

“Do you remember your time in Texas?” The words spilled out of her, but instead of giving into her surprise, she studied his response. He looked at his hands for a moment, scrutinising the lines on his skin like they stored his memories, and then he smiled weakly.

 

“Yeah, spent a year or two in those small towns,” he nodded, his chin now resting on his palm, elbows still on the table. “Wasn’t my best work,” he shrugged, “but then again, it’s so hard to _think_ over there, with all that heat.”

 

It was something Root had said more than once, and the coincidence made her irk. She wondered again if she was going to tell him who she was, if that’s what she had come to Chester for. It seemed like that was where she was leading the conversation, yet at the same time she wanted nothing but to leave now, to run and hide.

 

A voice inside told her that she had to push through. That she had to go on.

 

“You met a girl there, didn’t you?”

 

Root remembered the few photographs she had seen as a child. Faded pictures of a thinner, younger man that her mother insisted on calling her father.

 

It took him a moment before realisation dawned on him. Root examined every reaction on his traits, noticing the exact moment where the old con man’s brain finally came up with the answer. Staring as his frown almost painfully turned into a surprised expression.

 

“You’re...” he hesitated, “she _kept_ you?”

 

It stung more than it should have. She moved to stand up, eager to leave, and he placed his hand down the table just in front of her.

 

“Wait, that’s not,” he rushed, and for the first time he sounded genuine. Root sat down again, awkward, not knowing what to do with that heart of hers, and why it kept on beating wildly. “That was a dumb thing to say.”

 

Root swallowed hard and found she had nothing to say herself. The speech was there, all ready to burst, but she waited instead, her voice hidden in her chest, amongst the ache and the burn.

 

“I knew she was pregnant but I didn’t think she’d actually keep the baby, I mean... that girl had _nothing_ ,” he shook his head in disapproval. “You must’ve grown up so poor.”

 

There were no apologies, just like there had been no thanks earlier. Anger replaced the pain, a fire blazing just as wild in her lungs.

 

“And to think that I’m a father,” he nodded with a smile, as if he was proud of himself, for some reason.

 

Root felt something snap inside.

 

“You’re not,” she stared at him coldly. Her voice had turned cold despite the unbearable heat she felt inside. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

 

Anger had grown into rage, snaking its way up her throat until she couldn’t stop the words and she wasn’t sure, as she spoke, that she was talking to him really, or if she just needed to let it out, like Fusco had told her once. _I think it doesn’t matter who you say it to. You just gotta say it._

 

“You cheat people,” she accused, hateful and disgusted. “You manipulate them into doing what you want and once you’re done you just leave.” She shook her head; it felt like she was slipping, losing her footing. “You don’t _care_ , you never cared. You don’t think about anything but yourself, and being smarter than the others.”

 

Somewhere in the back of Root’s mind, there was a librarian telling a kid that she was liar who should keep her mouth shut instead of ruining people’s lives. “Well you’re not smarter; you’re just quicker to leave before anyone finds out how heartless and empty you really are.”

 

She stood up and fought against the need to run. Instead she clenched her jaw; “we’re done here.”

 

Root left in a hurry, hoping her anger and the tears coming to her eyes didn’t blow her cover, but the guards couldn’t care less about her.

 

The parking lot was still empty when she reached her car, locking herself inside as soon as she sat behind the wheel. Only then she allowed a tear to run down her cheek, but she wiped it away quickly. Turning on the ignition she took comfort in the sound of the engine, on the drive back to New York.

 

After two hours of silence she parked the car near her apartment building, knowing well where she was headed. The decision had been made somewhere down the road.

 

When she paid for the cheap bottle of rum she ignored the security camera in the corner; Root’s heart beating fast like she was being shot at. She nearly ran home then, up the flight of stairs and locking the door behind her as if she was scared of being followed. But there was no one behind her, she knew.

 

The apartment was empty and quiet as she went for the kitchen to grab a glass. She hadn’t bought a table and chairs yet and so she sat on the counter, and finally poured herself a drink.

 

A few seconds passed before the burn down her throat seemed to make everything better and she sighed in contempt, emptying it quickly.

 

With her head already buzzing lightly, Root thought she should eat something – she hadn’t had anything since breakfast, and the sun had long settled down. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to care, and she drank her second glass even more rapidly. With her feet hanging above the floor and the burn inside her chest she felt oddly joyful.

 

A third glass made her think about Sameen and she smiled, closing her eyes. “Where’s Sam?” she asked aloud, her voice slurred.

 

It took a short moment before the Machine finally answered, offering Root coordinates that weren’t Sameen’s apartment. Jealousy nested in her gut, Root shivered. “She’s working a number?”

 

_Affirmative_ , the Machine replied, and relief flooded in Root’s veins. She poured herself a fourth glass. “Is she having fun?”

 

The Machine didn’t answer immediately, but Root didn’t mind. She almost didn’t expect to hear from Her when her implant buzzed again. _Affirmative_.

 

Root smiled, picturing that look in Sameen’s eyes when danger was around. That rush that seemed to overcome Sameen then, making her dangerously wild and stunningly gorgeous. It was a sight that Root missed, something she hadn’t seen in months.

 

She looked at the bottle of rum and found it half empty.

 

As Root pushed herself off the kitchen counter she felt the liquor swooshing around in her gut, turning her knees weak and making the room spin. She thought of drinking the rest anyway but ended up emptying it in the sink instead, before burying the bottle in her garbage can. She pretended it was not to be tempted again, but in the back of her mind she knew it was to hide it.

 

She remembered breaking a glass while doing the dishes, when she was seven. A shard had cut her hand deep, coloring the water red. She had tried to hide it then, too. The cut hadn’t hurt nearly as much as when her mother had found the broken glass in the garbage.

 

_Liar. Good for nothing. Always breaking things._

 

Root made her way to her bedroom slowly, leaning on the walls for support. She reached her bed and hid under the covers as quickly as she could manage, fumbling with her clothes and the sheet until she was finally lying down. She fell asleep crying, muttering apologies in her pillow.

 

 

[....]

 

 

 “You know there’s no point in lying to me, right?” Fusco asked with a serious frown, his eyes inspecting Root like she was a suspect in one of his cases.

 

“What, you’ve got an all-seeing god whispering truths in your ear?” Root remarked, her hands burning against the hot cup of coffee. She had left Chester two days ago but still felt horrible, her mouth constantly dry and exhaustion aching in her muscles.

 

“I don’t need to hear voices,” Fusco replied, unfazed. “I’ve got eyes.”

 

Root looked outside the window, at the diner’s empty parking lot. The rain did nothing to soothe her; it pained her to be here with Fusco. It amplified the strange weight in her chest that she hadn’t been able to shake for day. Shame had crept up on her in the prison and it hadn’t left her side since, just like it had been with her constantly as Samantha Groves. Darkening every thought, and begging her to slip again.

 

She hadn’t. “It’s just been a long day.”

 

Root swallowed hard. All her days were long, as of late.

 

“Yeah?” Fusco challenged. When she didn’t reply anything he leaned over the table. “You know I spent months working with tall dark and broody as my sidekick,” he mocked with a playful smirk. “I know all about long days.”

 

Root smiled at him weakly. She knew very well what he was doing, but it had been so long since anyone had tried to make her comfortable that she didn’t hold it against him, for once. He waited a few seconds before he continued.

 

“It’s normal, you know. Happens to everyone,” he told her and Root winced. He laughed; “yeah I know your type. Don’t like to do things like everyone.”

 

The teasing was all to make her smile again, but this time it wouldn’t work. Root gazed out the window again, feeling her eyes watering.

 

“It’s hard, and it takes time,” he went on, leaning in again, like he was telling her a secret, and Root didn’t like it one bit. She shivered as Fusco continued; “and it’s going to take all you’ve got, and more.”

 

Root cleared her throat. “That’s not very encouraging,” she complained, yet when she looked at Fusco she found herself looking at him differently. He held her stare and for a moment, she thought of what Sameen had said. _He’s a good man_. There were so few of those.

 

“Do I look like a cheerleader to you?” he grunted, and Root laughed lightly. “Ah, there she is.” She glared at him, but that didn’t stop him from adding, “that’s the Cocoa Puffs I’m used to.”

 

Root frowned, but they finished their coffee in silence.

 

She had expected him to be disappointed or angry. To judge her or to mock her weakness, something, anything but the warm eyes and playful kidding. Root didn’t know what to make of his reaction, but instead of bucking against it, she settled on letting it go.

 

They were about to finish their cups of coffee when the waitress appeared, always with perfect timing, slipping Fusco the bill. This time, though, Root grabbed it from him. “Let me,” she told him with a smile and was glad when he didn’t argue.

 

She walked up to the counter with the Machine buzzing in her ear, pleased that the Machine had guessed what Root was about to do. She leaned against the counter as she waited for the waitress to join her, thinking of what she was going to say and already hating herself for the gesture, but now that the Machine was involved too, there was no backing out. When the waitress appeared Root shared a smile with her and noticed how Doris’ eyes went from her to Fusco, still sitting at the table.

 

“He likes you,” Root muttered almost against her will, looking away when the waitress’ cheeks reddened.

 

“Well, I think he’s cute,” Doris answered shyly and Root rolled her eyes.

 

“I didn’t need to know _that_ ,” she complained and Doris chuckled. “But he’s one of the good guys,” she continued more seriously. As if she could feel Fusco’s future teasing, she added quickly; “actually, don’t let him know I told you that.”

 

Doris smiled warmly, giving Root her credit card back, and then looked down. Root noticed it was because Fusco had just appeared beside her and she rolled her eyes again. Those two would never get anywhere.

 

“Lionel, you’re good at fixing things, aren’t you?” Root asked bluntly, and he only opened his mouth in confusion, frowning. Root thought he looked completely ridiculous and she found herself so annoyed with him, but she carried on anyway. “Doris has a leak in her bathroom that her landlord won’t fix; I told her you could help her with that,” she explained.

 

Fusco cleared his throat, but appeared unable to talk. Root fought her irritation with him, but it seeped through her voice as she went on, “so it’s fine if I leave her your number, right?”

 

He nodded silently, and Root took one look at Doris, also speechless and strangely paralysed. “May I borrow your pen?”

 

Doris was still fazed as she offered a pen to Root, who struggled not to make fun of them both. Instead, she wrote down Fusco’s number and then gave it back to Doris without a word, and that seemed to pull her out of it.

 

“How did you know that?” Doris asked with a frown. “About the leak?”

 

Root only smirked, and Fusco groaned beside her.

 

“Because she knows everything,” he grunted, glaring at Root. She was already walking away when she heard him add, “and yes, it’s as annoying as that sounds.”

 

Doris laughed, and Root heard Fusco warming up as he made small talk. Root smiled all the way back to her car, ignoring the rain that drenched her clothes.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered to the Machine. She didn’t hear anything back, but Root didn’t mind.

 

She knew the Machine was always listening.


	10. July

Sameen had brought dinner, despite Root’s insistence that she could take care of it; Sameen had tasted Root’s failed attempts at cooking before, and she wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. Besides, it felt out of place and oddly domestic, the idea of Root inviting Sameen to come over and preparing a meal for just the two of them.

 

It definitely wasn’t something Sameen usually did. When she went to someone else’s apartment, it was for one thing only, and she was out as soon as they were done. But tonight wasn’t about sex and she still hadn’t settled on how she felt towards Root. It had been weeks since Root had left Sameen’s place, and yet somehow her ghost lingered in Sameen’s living room, invisible but not quiet.

 

When she spent time with Root lately, Sameen mostly felt cold and distant. But every now and then she caught a drift of Root’s perfume, or Root said something with _that_ voice and Sameen had this sudden, dreadful feeling that she had forgotten something important. Right there, in the back of her mind, it nagged her incessantly. The memory, out of reach.

 

Tonight, that feeling wouldn’t leave her alone as she walked up the stairs leading to Root’s apartment. She hadn’t visited once since Root had started living there; Fusco had described it to her, even drew a plan on a napkin, but Sameen hadn’t really bothered listening. Root called sometimes and Sameen let her make conversation, but she never paid much attention. It was good that Root was getting better, but Sameen wasn’t fooled. Root and her, that was never going to work out.

 

Root seemed nervous and tired when she opened the door and Sameen immediately wondered if she was hiding something. If she had relapsed a second time, but Sameen couldn’t ask. She didn’t like to think about that conversation, a few weeks ago, that day Root had told her that she had gotten drunk again, apologising profusely through her tears.

 

Sameen didn’t like to remember the pang of hurt that had burst in her chest that day, the ache haunting her for hours after she had hung up.

 

Standing in Root’s doorway with her arms filled with Chinese food containers was even more awkward than she had expected, and Sameen was glad when Root finally stepped aside to let her in. Sameen went straight towards the kitchen, having apparently memorised the plan Fusco had drawn despite her will.

 

Everything in Root’s apartment reeked of this _new_ smell and Sameen was glad that the food’s spicy scent spread so quickly, warming up the place quietly.

 

“I could have cooked something,” Root insisted again, but Sameen didn’t listen. Instead she shrugged, looking around.

 

“I wanted Chinese,” she replied carelessly. She didn’t know what to do with this weirdly shy Root who worried at her lip all the time. Sameen wanted to snap at her or to leave her apartment in a rush, but she had already agreed to do this, to come over and spend an evening with Root, and now she couldn’t back down. Still, Sameen absently wondered what kind of a strange impulse had prompted her to say yes to that invitation.

 

Restless, Sameen made her way towards the living room, inspecting the place more than anything else. Root followed behind, silent like a kid waiting for approval, and Sameen didn’t like the feeling of having power over her. She remembered a feisty Root pressing her against a wall in her mother’s old house, towering her, strong and angry and relentless.

 

There were no traces of that Root tonight and Sameen wondered how she could miss someone when she was with them. A strange, inexplicable longing that worsened with Root’s every quiet hum.

 

Sameen inspected the bathroom quickly, commenting on how large it was and how Root didn’t need all that space, but Root only looked down, not replying anything. Going through the rest of the apartment, Sameen tried to get a rise every now and then, but it seemed like there was nothing she could say that would trigger a reaction. She didn’t know why she needed to annoy Root, to irritate her until she’d finally snap, but she couldn’t help herself.

 

Not waiting for an invitation, Sameen walked into Root’s bedroom without a second thought, and found herself awkward and uncertain, feeling Root’s eyes digging into her back. She was about to leave when she noticed something sticking out from under Root’s pillow and she stopped, a strange compulsion bringing her to move closer and pull it out.

 

It was a photograph, an old black and white Polaroid. On it, a seven-year-old Sameen was building a sand castle, her mother helping just beside her, both of them grinning. The realisation dawned on her like a ton of bricks, but still Sameen couldn’t help but ask; “what’s that?”

 

Root flinched like someone expecting to be punched. “I just,” she took a step back as if she was scared of Sameen’s reaction and it snapped something inside Sameen, dialing up her anger.

 

“How did you get this?” she asked furiously although she knew the answer. She remembered all too well that night by the fire, so many months ago. That weekend when everything between the two of them had slipped into something else. Sameen still wasn’t sure if she regretted it or not.

 

She couldn’t love Root, or at least, not the way Root needed her to. Sameen had given her all she had, but it hadn’t been enough. She wished sometimes she had never tried this thing with Root; that way, Sameen wouldn’t have broken her so much.

 

“I couldn’t let you burn them all,” Root replied with a low voice, tears coming to her eyes.

 

Sameen shook her head in disapproval; she didn’t want to see those tears. When Root cried Sameen kept picturing that night when she had picked her up at the bar, how broken Root had seemed, so frail in the bartender’s coat, and how Sameen couldn’t bear feel that way again. Helpless. “I trusted you, Root,” Sameen accused, the picture bending between a thumb and a finger.

 

“I’m sorry,” Root whispered as she stepped forward, and although she sounded sincere Sameen wondered if she was. If Root had ever been. “I’m so sorry Sam, I didn’t think-“

 

“That’s obvious,” Sameen interrupted her, angry and tired. “That you didn’t _think_ ,” she finished, looking at the doorway and repeating to herself that perhaps it really had been a mistake to come here.

 

“I saw them, I saw _you_ and you looked so happy, and I thought,” Root stopped there, averting her eyes and sighing. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

 

Sameen laughed bitterly. “You didn’t think I would mind?” she stepped closer, furious. “They were _my_ pictures, _my_ memories, what the hell gives you the right, Root?”

 

“What am I supposed to do with _my_ memories, Shaw?” Sameen realised then that they were both screaming, Root’s voice beating her eardrums heavily. She winced. “What am I supposed to do with all that?”

 

Root so rarely talked about her childhood, and Sameen didn’t ask; it just didn’t seem right. She preferred not to think about it anyway, not to imagine a tiny version of Root crying, with bruises covering her limbs and torso. The anger slowly drained out of Sameen then, watching silently as Root tried to compose herself. Sameen stepped closer almost instinctively, Root’s perfume suddenly reaching her.

 

“I don’t have photographs like yours,” Root explained, shaking her head absently. “Not one picture where I’m smiling. And even if I had,” Root swallowed hard. “I’d know the bruises under my clothes. I’d know that feeling like I would never leave that house alive.”

 

In all the time Root had spent living with her, Sameen hadn’t allowed much physical contact between them, but today, it seemed pointless to keep that distance up. Yet Sameen was surprised when she pulled Root closer, allowing her to melt in the embrace. Root cried against her shoulder and Sameen simply waited, her hand tangled in Root’s hair. It was familiar and somehow it wasn’t; Sameen felt awkward and out of place, but still, as if she belonged there, holding Root up.

 

“Look, I get it,” she whispered, fighting a groan of irritation as her fingers toyed with Root’s curls absently. “But it doesn’t make it okay, you know?”

 

Root nodded, pulling apart slightly. “I’m sorry.”

 

Frustration returned, louder; it wasn’t the first time she heard those words coming from Root. “Yeah, you’re always sorry,” Sameen sighed.

 

Root bit on her lower lip and Sameen felt a bolt of arousal uncomfortably mixing with her frustration. She wasn’t sure if she was hearing things or if Root’s voice was really that husky when she added to her apology, “but I really, really am.”

 

Their eyes met and Sameen didn’t blink when Root leaned forward, her lips falling on Sameen’s quietly. Root’s warmth buzzed against Sameen’s skin and only then Sameen closed her eyes, her hand absently coming to rest at Root’s waist, pressing her closer. When Root’s hum reached her ears, Sameen pulled apart slightly, suddenly breaking the spell.

 

Her hand seemed to lay heavy on Root’s waist, but Sameen didn’t remove it. Instead, she kept her eyes closed, and took a deep breath. “You’re breaking the rules,” she whispered. Sameen thought she would feel angry about that, but she didn’t. Her lips still tingled with Root’s warm breath brushing against them and Sameen felt something warm inside, spreading like lava under her skin.

 

She opened her eyes to find Root smiling. “Well, I heard there’s a thing called _house rules_ ,” she teased, but Sameen could see through her bravado; Root was nervous, and scared.

 

That brought back the frustration and Sameen took her hand off Root, irritated. “It doesn’t work like that, Root.”

 

Root didn’t move. Instead, the stress left her traits and she pressed her body closer to Sameen’s, one of her hands snaking behind Sameen’s back, tracing circles over her shirt. “Do you ever miss me?”

 

The words hit Sameen like a punch. She wasn’t one to feel alone, really, but she had noticed a lack of energy lately. She worked the irrelevant numbers and had her fun there, but when she got home she mostly felt empty and tired. She thought of Root, sometimes – not this broken Root, but the one from before, the one from Prague.

 

Maybe, in some way, she did miss Root. Just not this one.

 

“Because I want you all the time,” Root purred against her and for a moment Sameen felt like she had lost her balance. She thought of kissing Root again, of how good it would feel to have her again, to make her ache and overwhelm her senses with pleasure until Root broke against her.

 

Instead, Sameen conjured her coldest stare, and locked her eyes into Root’s. “It’s not fair you telling me that,” she argued, irritation taking over arousal.

 

As if she sensed the shift, Root pulled apart, crossing her arms angrily. “And why is that?” she sighed in annoyance. “I did what you asked. I stopped drinking; I got this place. What more do you want from me?”

 

Sameen shook her head, clenching her jaw. “You’re not doing better just because you got keys to your place.”

 

Anger flashed on Root’s traits. “What the hell do you want from me, Shaw?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sameen snapped back.

 

“What do you want me to say?” Root’s voice broke and it sent a bolt of hurt inside Sameen’s chest, cold and biting. “That I don’t feel at home anywhere? That the only time I felt good in the past year was when I was drunk or when you fucked me?”

 

Sameen took a step back. Her head ached suddenly and she thought again about leaving. That coming here was a mistake.

 

“Or that I need that pain otherwise I don’t know what to do?” Sameen blinked and in the course of that second, Root’s expression had changed from furious to enraged. “That I couldn’t stand the way you looked at me, the way you’re looking at me now, because if you’re not hurting me Shaw...”

 

Root looked away, bitter, her anger boiling under her words. “If you’re not hurting me I don’t know who I am.”

 

The room suddenly became quiet again and Sameen ended up staring at the shadows on the wall, the leaves of the tree outside dancing against the sunlight. She breathed down deeply, setting aside her frustration, feeling it slowly pouring out of her.

 

“I’m fucked up, aren’t I?” Root smiled through her tears, wiping them away. “Like mother like daughter.”

 

Sameen didn’t like how exhausted Root sounded. She thought about her relapse a couple of weeks ago, how sick she looked then, and she shook her head.

 

“That’s not true,” Sameen opposed, surprising herself with how confident she seemed all of a sudden. “You’re nothing like your parents.”

 

Root swallowed hard, but a sour laugh escaped her anyway. “Have you taken a look at me recently?”

 

Sameen lifted an eyebrow. “Have _you_?”

 

Quiet settled again between them, but Sameen felt oddly compelled to go on. “You’re making efforts, Root. You said so yourself.”

 

Root rolled her eyes and Sameen sighed. “You stopped drinking, you got this place, you’re even having coffee with Fusco every week, and I’m not even sure I’d be strong enough not to kill him after twenty minutes,” she joked, and that got Root to smile. Some strange warmth burned lightly against Sameen’s sternum, something not unlike the feeling of pride she used to have, when she had gotten something right.

 

“You _are_ doing better,” Sameen insisted. “So stop with the self-pity routine.”

 

Root granted her another smile before she leaned in again, her lips pressed chastely against Sameen. This time, Sameen forced herself not to return the gesture, but she didn’t push Root away either.

 

“We can’t do this,” Sameen whispered, fighting the urge to press Root against her again. It had been so long since the last time she had felt like this, _wanting_ , and the tension between them was definitely not helping.

 

“I know,” Root replied, keeping her eyes closed, breathing down deeply. “I just didn’t know how to thank you.”

 

Sameen ran a hand through Root’s hair slowly, moving the curls away from her face, the gesture so familiar that she forgot all about her irritation and arousal for a moment. Instead, she nodded. “It’s okay,” she muttered grumpily. “Talking’s overrated.”

 

Root smiled, colors returning to her cheeks. “It really is.”

 

Sameen cleared her throat, moving apart and breaking the moment and Root blinked a few times, as if she had forgotten where she was, why Sameen was there.

 

“I’m taking back the picture,” Sameen announced then, the image still clutched between a finger and a thumb. She glanced at her photographed mother, smiling as she helped a small Sameen dig a moat, and Sameen shrugged, not wanting to think about her. Inevitably it brought to mind her death at the hospital, and the few days that had followed, and it all seemed like too much to handle.

 

In front of Sameen, Root hadn’t moved, as if she was waiting for a signal.

 

With a shrug, Sameen shoved the picture in her pocket before she went for the door, turning around. “Are you coming? Food’s getting cold.”

 

Root followed without a word, and Sameen did her best to ignore the way her skin still tingled with Root’s warmth even hours later, as she drove back home under the city’s night sky.

 

 

[...]

 

 

In Root’s apartment, time stood still. She would clean every room and then go for a run around the neighborhood to try to get back in shape, but getting out of the shower she’d notice that only three hours had passed. Root tried to busy herself with reading, but literature had never really been her thing. She wrote the codes for a few worms and viruses that she had no plans to unleash and still the sun barely seemed to cross the sky.

 

Impatient, she walked by the library a few times, offering her help with irrelevant numbers, but Harold had this worry in his eyes, like he wasn’t certain she was truly going to be able to help. She ran out of there every time Sameen dropped by anyway, not knowing what to say to her, and not daring to ask her about work.

 

Root realised she had to do something when she found she welcomed her weekly rendezvous with Fusco.

 

That day, on her way home, she decided it was time to learn how to cook. It was something she had always done as a necessity more than anything; just a means to keep herself alive. Ever since she had been a kid she had been cooking for herself, but never really taking the time to create a dish. Usually she ate some pasta or toasts and that was it.

 

At the grocery store she vaguely remembered learning how to spell some vegetables’ names that she had never heard of, back when she was a kid, and how ridiculous she had felt then for not knowing what they were. With so much time on her hands and no one to mock her this time, Root found herself drawn to those again, curious of how to cook them and what they would taste like.

 

She had always been careful with her money; what she had gotten from arranging the murder of Hanna’s killer, she had thoughtfully invested to pay for the house and bills when her mother couldn’t, and then to plan her departure from Bishop. She had never spent more than she had to, and on that day she decided to forget this worry she had kept ever since she was a kid – that she’d inevitably end up not being able to survive on her own.

 

Root went through the rows swiftly and dropped into her cart everything she had ever been curious about and anything she liked. She ended up with the heaviest grocery bags she had ever carried, and with her kitchen’s counter filled with various boxes and bottles, fruits and vegetables lying in the middle of it, creating a colorful mess all over.

 

Once she was done putting everything away, Root fetched her laptop and settled on a recipe to prepare, painstakingly trying to figure out what she liked. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried a lot of different foods before, but having never really put much importance in it, she realised she didn’t know what she preferred. Once she finally made her decision the sun was always starting to set and she smiled, time finally going forward again.

 

Root was busy cutting open a dragon fruit when her oven beeped, and she let out a confused “what’s that?” in reply, already forgetting if the timer was for the pre-heating or the cooking being done. The Machine answered in her implant and Root jumped at the sound, the knife slicing her thumb deeply. Root hissed in pain and quickly brought her digit to her lips, slowing the swelling of blood by licking it off her skin and the Machine started offering statistics about germs in human saliva.

 

Rolling her eyes, Root rinsed her thumb under a cold stream of water instead, watching as the reddened water fell down the drain. “This is your fault, you know,” she accused the Machine, but her implant had returned to its usual quietness.

 

Looking at the mess in her kitchen, the salad not ready and the main dish burning in the oven, Root felt her eyes watering. Exhausted, she ignored everything she would have to clean up later and hid in the bathroom instead, rinsing her cut again before she stuck a plaster on it. In her ear the Machine insisted for a disinfectant and Root laughed, a sob coming through as she bit her lip.

 

“I’m tired of not doing anything,” Root said aloud, knowing very well who she was speaking to, despite there being no answer. “I want to start working again.”

 

Her apartment smelled like smoke and Root didn’t bother pulling out the dish from the oven; instead she simply turned it off, threw in the garbage what little she had prepared for the salad and left the rest to clean up in the morning.

 

Not hungry anymore, she slumped down on the couch, looking at the darkened city and its night lights. She was slowly drifting asleep when her phone rang, her heartbeats going wild as she blinked confusedly.

 

“Can’t make it this Thursday,” Fusco announced as soon as she picked up. Root rolled her eyes.

 

“Why?” she asked, trying to sound detached even though she was deeply annoyed. She would’ve liked to welcome the week off, a whole seven days without having an awkward conversation with Fusco, but somehow it only frightened her.

 

She wanted a drink, just one, to take the edge off. To make everything a bit more comfortable, a bit easier to deal with. She felt like a failure when she hung up on Fusco’s excuses about late meetings and special squads, thinking of Harold’s worried eyes and of the Machine’s silence in her ear.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought. When she had left Bishop all those years ago, she had never planned for this to happen. For her to meet Harold and the Machine, and then Sameen. To end up caring about others and worrying about them. For them to matter.

 

Thinking of Sameen only reminded her of what she had lost in the past few months, remembering that night after the funeral, Sameen looking so impossibly beautiful in her Marine uniform and gazing at Root like she was worth the risk.

 

She fought the desire to ask the Machine where Sameen was; it wasn’t her place to know. Instead she returned to her kitchen, sighing at the mess she had made. It seemed like a lot to clean up and her chest tightened painfully as she got started, wondering where she had steered wrong exactly. When she had started slipping down that road she was stuck on.

 

When she was finally done she crashed down on her couch again, allowing herself to fall asleep even though it was still early. Drifting in slumber, Root slowly forgot about the city lights blinking on the other side of the window, coloring the living room much like a child’s night light, quietly promising to keep them safe.

 

 

[...]

 

 

Trying not to see the dark circles under her eyes, Root blinked several times, speechless. In her implant the Machine repeated the number a second time, the volume a bit higher, like She believed Root hadn’t heard. Root quickly spit the toothpaste still in her mouth and avoided her reflection in the mirror as she asked, tentatively; “you want me to work again?”

 

The Machine repeated the number a third time, just before She added _You are to relieve Asset Sameen Shaw_.

 

Root frowned, worry seeping in her chest. “Is she okay?” she questioned aloud, her heart beating faster as she ran back to her bedroom to put on some clothes.

 

_Asset is uninjured._

 

Rapidly slipping on some pants and a t-shirt, Root wondered what was going on then, why her presence was suddenly required after so many months off duty. “What’s the mission?”

 

 

Root laughed, looking at the clock – these days she woke up at awful hours and just couldn’t fall asleep again – and understood, vaguely, what this was about. “So she’s bored?”

 

The Machine didn’t answer, but that wasn’t a surprise. Root grabbed her vest and left home in a hurry, almost forgetting to lock the place behind her before running out of the building. She stopped to get herself some coffee and grabbed a chocolate chip muffin for Sameen, guessing she had been on that recon mission all night. As she walked down the street the Machine filled her in on the case Sameen had been working, the quiet buzzing like a hum in her ear, making Root’s morning oddly peaceful.

 

Root smiled when she noticed Sameen sitting alone in a car, a camera on her lap, clearly exhausted. Pulling open the passenger door, Root slumped on the seat in one swoop and was immediately welcomed by the muzzle of a gun.

 

“Good morning Sameen,” she smirked, and Sameen sighed in annoyance.

 

“What are you doing here?” she grunted, only slightly surprised when Root offered her the muffin. She grabbed it without a thank you, and frowned. “What, no coffee?”

 

“The Machine asked me to relieve you,” Root answered. Her voice was tainted with how strangely proud she was to be back on the job, even though it was for a simple recon mission, and Root hoped Sameen didn’t hear her emotional tone. “And I guessed that you’ve been here all night and actually need sleep, not coffee.”

 

“Guessed?” Sameen repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “You mean you haven’t put a tracker on me?” she asked with a playful tone and Root felt her chest warming up at the familiarity in Sameen’s voice.

 

“Maybe I didn’t take the time to verify said-tracker before I left home,” Root answered with a grin.

 

Sameen ran a hand through her hair. “See, I _always_ check my trackers before I leave home,” she joked before taking a bite out of her muffin.

 

“Who’s flirting now?” Root teased, trying to forget the nervousness that was sparking in her gut.

 

Sameen glared at her. “I was making polite conversation,” she groaned, but Root didn’t hear any trace of anger or animosity; just the usual grumpiness that came with Sameen.

 

“Sure you were,” Root smiled, nodding as she looked outside the window, pretending to be detached. The exchange was making her heart race and she was startled when Sameen spoke again.

 

“Alright, you wanna be like this, you take my place,” Sameen shoved the camera on Root’s lap, shaking her head. “This dumbass number has done nothing suspicious since we’ve been tracking him,” she added, looking at her watch, “twenty-three hours ago.”

 

She yawned and shifted on her seat, and Root chuckled lightly, noticing a red line running down Sameen’s cheek.

 

“What?” Sameen almost barked.

 

Root grinned, pointing towards the mark. “You fell asleep at some point.”

 

“I did not,” Sameen argued angrily, but she took a peek at the mirror anyway, finding the evidence that her vest most likely left there a little while ago. “I was just resting my eyes,” she muttered in irritation.

 

As if trying to avoid discussing it further, Sameen opened her door, slipping out to offer her seat to Root. She was stretching as they crossed path behind the car and Root trying not to gaze at her, focusing on the Machine’s intel that still buzzed in her ear.

 

Sitting down behind the wheel, Root was surprised to find Sameen dropping unceremoniously on the passenger seat. “What are you doing?” she asked, slightly annoyed that Sameen wouldn’t trust her with such an easy mission.

 

“Something’s bound to come up soon,” Sameen answered, leaning against the window and closing her eyes. “Wake me up when it does.”

 

Root bit on her lower lip, trying to push aside the anger that was starting to rise, burning uncomfortably in her gut. “Shaw, I can handle it on my own.”

 

Her voice was colder than she had expected and she felt slightly guilty when Sameen lifted a surprised gaze towards her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Sighed quietly, Root averted her eyes, staring at the number’s front door instead. “I know you’re worried that I’m back on the job but I can do it,” she explained, pacing her voice to hide the bitter taste that Sameen’s distrust had left.

 

“Groves, I’ve stayed up all night watching this guy and I really don’t like wasting my time, so if it turns out he’s the perp, I want to be there to kick his sorry ass,” Sameen replied in irritation. “Now are you gonna let me get some shut-eye or do you need to whine some more?”

 

She crossed eyes with Sameen and it sent warmth through her chest, calming her erratic heartbeat, a smile strangely curling her lips. “Of course, Sameen.”

 

As Sameen closed her eyes again, Root grabbed the camera and went through the last pictures saved, lifting her gaze every now and then to see if their number was leaving his house. When it became apparent that he wasn’t, she pulled out her laptop and started poking around his bank accounts, typing away with her eyes running from the screen to the number’s house and then glancing at Sameen, sleeping quietly beside her.

 

Sipping her rapidly cooling coffee, Root thought she could get used to those early mornings.


	11. August (Part 1)

Corpus Christi was somehow different and the same – buildings and adds had changed, but the ambiance of the place had remained similar as Root had found it, all those years ago. She hadn’t set foot in its airport since the day she had left Bishop, right after her mother’s burial. Looking around, it wasn’t hard to remember her twenties again, alone and resolved.

 

It wasn’t very far from how she felt now, her luggage dutifully rolling behind her, a bag on her shoulder. Just like back then, Root had no idea what she was looking for exactly; she just knew she had to go.

 

This time, she hadn’t taken a plane to leave everything behind her; she had come back to Texas to dig up ghosts she had buried a long time ago. To tie knots where she had left strings hanging. The aching lump in her throat was the same as it had been then, and so was the stress and anticipation of the journey. She had thought everything would be different the second time around, but it was only more painful and scary.

 

She stopped to get a rental car and hesitated before giving her name. When she had been planning this trip she had settled on using her birth name, but now that she was forced to sign it, she wasn’t sure she was making the right choice. She craved an alias then, a mask that would allow her to hide, but she remembered all too well the fiasco at Chester’s. Biting her inner lip until she tasted blood, Root finally signed on that little dotted line at the end of the page. _Sam Groves_.

 

For a moment as the employee searched for the right keys, Root wondered if the good old people of Bishop would recognise her. If they would have that same pitiful, hypocritical look when they would gaze at her. _Sam Groves_.

 

She was glad when her thoughts were interrupted; her car had been inspected and was ready to go. She faked a smile as she grabbed the keys and didn’t hesitate to shove her luggage on the back seat. It all felt strange, somehow; like she had done those gestures a thousand times, but today they meant more. Today her movements were slower and sadder, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

 

That she was battling something too big for her to handle alone.

 

As she drove silently towards Bishop, Root had no need for a map. Not only was the Machine confirming her that she was on the right road, but Root realised she still knew the way by heart. Fading memories returned to mind; people she had tried her best to never think about again. Hanna’s parents; the sheriff’s. Barbara Tomkins, the librarian – turned Barbara Russell.

 

Him. Trent Russell. A name she had cursed every day for years.

 

Back when Root still lived in Bishop, patiently waiting for her mother to die, she had spent so much time hating him that he seemed to be everywhere. She met him in grocery aisles and on the sidewalk and for months she had wondered if he knew – if he flinched every time he saw Root because she had seen Hanna get into his car; she had known who he was, and what he was made of. Root kept a knife under her pillow then, and another one on her at all times. She pictured him coming into her room at night and trying to get rid of this embarrassing witness; she imagined what it would feel like to plunge the blade into his neck and gut him right there. If his blood would be warm, and strangely sweet.

 

The foot on the gas pedal became heavier and Root barely blinked as the trees went by more quickly. In her implant the Machine updated her on the speed limits but Root didn’t care; she needed this over with. She had to stop thinking about Trent Russell and how much she had wanted to kill him.

 

In the end, he had never come for her. She had been forced to dispose of him another way, conning someone else to do her dirty work. She remembered well the glee she had felt that morning, when she had picked up the newspaper and saw his name up there. Before night had come, she had already learned by heart every sentence of the article and had hidden a copy in her room – it wasn’t like her mother was going to find it anyway. She was drunker every week then, and everyday Sam was convinced she was going to find her dead, and yet she didn’t.

 

She didn’t know how to explain the mixture of relief and disappointment that overwhelmed her then.

 

Sometimes Root imagined herself packing her things and leaving, although she knew she couldn’t. Instead, she stayed, using her money to keep them both afloat with the bills and the house, taking care of her mother absently. Like it wasn’t really Root acting, but Sam. Sam bidding her time until she could finally be Root all the time.

 

When she finally had discovered her mother’s deceased body in the living room, Root had found herself inexplicably nauseous and sad. She had cried even though in her scenarios, she never did. In her imagination she was packing already as the coroner took her mother away, and Root left the driveway in her broken-down car at the same time as the ambulance did. She would have driven away with the ambulance in the rear mirror, and all the road ahead. Free at last.

 

It hadn’t happened that way. Instead, Root had cried as she had dialed 911. Had almost vomited the words into the phone and had waited on the couch, her feet on the sofa – even though she wasn’t allowed to – and pictured her mother complaining about it. But she would never whine for stupid reasons again; Root would never hear her voice again and many times she had wished for it, but on that day it only left this emptiness inside that she didn’t know quite how to fill.

 

When the paramedics had arrived, she had forgotten all about the tears and the voice, and answered their questions dutifully, one after the other, like filling paperwork. That only brought anger and frustration because of course she would have to take care of things now, would have to arrange a burial and decide what to do with the house and Root didn’t want to be the adult anymore. All she wanted was to leave and she felt like her mother was pulling her back again, mocking her from the grave she wasn’t buried in yet.

 

Root set aside the memories as she entered the limits of Bishop, that old sign welcoming her like a trap and suddenly she wasn’t so sure it was a good idea to come back. She pulled to the side and stepped out of her car, running her hand through her hair and trying to focus on her breathing. Nausea and anger overcame her and she tried to concentrate on why she had decided to come here. Why she had settled on confronting the ghosts that were haunting her.

 

She thought of how Fusco had encouraged her to come, how proud he looked when she had told him what she was planning. She cursed his name a couple of times, and hers for listening to him to begin with. Root imagined Reese and Carter coming to Bishop to find answers, to find Hanna, something Root had never done because she knew the truth already and hadn’t cared much for sharing with others. She had tried once, and would be caught dead before she tried that again.

 

But her stubbornness had cost Hanna so many more years buried under that patio, and it brought tears to Root’s eyes. The guilt sank in her stomach like lead as she wiped the tears away and returned into her car, wondering if she should just leave or not. Much like she had in Chester, she knew if she didn’t go through with it now, she never would.

 

In Bishop the heat was just as unbearable as it had been in Corpus Christi, and although Root had arrived only thirty minutes before, already she wanted to leave. It seemed like the sun did nothing but burn her skin, and she thought of the sunburns she used to get, almost as if she had put her hands into the fire. She gulped down a bottle of water, incessantly thirsty, trying to ignore how she felt like everyone was staring – which they probably were, only because she had been sitting in her car in an impossible heat wave for what was a bit more than half an hour.

 

It itched, those eyes falling on her, and she finally resolved on leaving the comfort of her car, determined on having a drink at the local bar – just to take down that tension that gripped her heart so tightly, just to get some sense of peace.

 

The only bar in Bishop looked more like an obsolete recreation center than anything else, but Root knew where to find it by heart – how many times had she went there to bring her mother back home safely?

 

What had never been there before, though, was a familiar silhouette leaning against the wall besides the door of JD’s Sports Bar.

 

“What are you doing here?” Root asked in annoyance, lifting up her sunglasses. Sameen moved from the entrance of the bar, coming towards her without a word. “Checking up on me?”

 

Sameen looked aside, cringing as if she didn’t really want to answer. “Fusco said you’d come here.”

 

Root’s heart stopped as she felt the betrayal striking through her chest. “To Bishop, or to the bar?” Root questioned, frustrated.

 

Averting her eyes, Sameen bit down her lip. “Look, I’m just here to help.”

 

Root didn’t know what to do with that, or even what to answer. Instead she turned around and walked away, Sameen following her behind until they reached Root’s car.

 

“I don’t need your help,” Root replied angrily. She couldn’t explain why she felt so betrayed by Sameen’s presence; why she wanted Sameen out of here, but it wasn’t unlike the panic that had settled into her in Lancaster, when she had recognised her father and only wanted Sameen to get out of the office, even though there was no actual danger. It was like instinct, reacting to some strange fear she didn’t feel like dwelling on.

 

Sameen shrugged. “I guess I could get you coffee and stuff,” she said, echoing what Root had told her so many months ago, after Sameen’s mother had died. Root had forced her presence on Sameen then, and to think that Sameen was ready to do the same only confused her more. Root swallowed hard, feeling tears coming to her eyes – it seemed it was all she was good at, lately. Fusco said it was the alcohol leaving her body, and Root knew that it was really about exhaustion and getting back on her feet but she still liked his expression.

 

“You mean as my personal slave?” she continued, repeating what Sameen had replied to her back then, feeling some sense of normalcy finally slipping back, even though she still would’ve preferred that Sameen wasn’t in Bishop.

 

Sameen smirked. “Well we got the safe word already.”

 

Root felt comfort settling down in her lungs, like she could breathe again despite the hot, unbearable heat. Sameen asked her what she had planned and Root shrugged, saying that she needed to rent a room before she did anything. They both remained silent on the fact that Root had been going straight for the bar instead, and for that Root was thankful. She felt shame reddening her cheeks already, and didn’t need Sameen to remind her that she had been, once again, very close to breaking that first rule.

 

There was a hotel along the 77 and Root took Shaw there without a word, not questioning where Sameen had parked her car. That would come later, Root realised, but for now she didn’t want to think of how Sameen had gotten there, of how she had fled across the country for Root like she had, once, biked all the way to Jersey to save her life. It sat uneasily in her chest, burning like a fist.

 

There was a moment of hesitation at the front desk. “Should we take two rooms?” Root asked nervously.

 

“One will be fine,” Sameen stated, looking at Root like she was trying to tell her something, but Root wasn’t ready to hear it.

 

“Two beds, Ma’am?” the young guy questioned – a teenager, all awkward and bored, and who couldn’t stop eyeing Sameen.

 

“One bed,” Sameen cut off Root, and Root spared her a look, but Sameen’s glare told her to shut up, and so she did.

 

Root paid for the room as Sameen grabbed the key, driving the car in front of their room and getting the luggage in. Root entered behind her, confused and slightly angry.

 

“One room, one bed?” Root repeated in irritation and Sameen turned around.

 

“Do you mind?” Sameen doubted, worry suddenly flashing on her face.

 

Root gazed back at her, noticing Sameen’s warm look, like she was concerned with having been brusque, and that never happened, lately. “No,” Root answered almost in a whisper, although she wasn’t sure.

 

“If it makes you uncomfortable I can just get my own,” Sameen continued, almost apologetic.

 

“I said it’s okay,” Root answered, standing at the entrance awkwardly. She didn’t know what it meant, or, more likely, feared that she was reading the signals wrong. She lingered in the doorway, hesitant.

 

Sameen checked the small fridge. “Well this place is cheap enough not to have a mini-bar,” she muttered.

 

“I don’t need you to do this, you know?” Root started, unsure of where she wanted to go with that conversation. She just needed Sameen to know that she was able to be here by herself. That she could do it on her own, just like she had gotten an apartment and started working numbers again.

 

Sameen looked aside, as if embarrassed. “I just... wanted to be here.”

 

There was an awkward silence and Root sighed. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here, Shaw,” Root confessed, coming to sit at the bed. She averted her eyes and gazed at the floor instead of looking at Sameen, worrying about what could be read in there. Sadness, hurt, frustration. All the things that would make Sameen leave, but Root couldn’t stop feeling like this.

 

“What do you want to do?” Sameen asked after a few minutes of silence.

 

“Sleep,” Root suggested, although it was the middle of the afternoon, and Sameen hated naps. But under the heat Root felt her resolve weakening and she wanted nothing but to rest.

 

“You do that then,” Sameen replied with a weak smile, grabbing her bag and pulling out a gun that she immediately started taking apart to pieces. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Root didn’t question it. She fell asleep in a matter of minutes, and slept longer and better than she had in a while; those three hours of sleep seemingly making up for months of exhaustion as the cheap laundry detergent of the hotel mixed with Sameen’s perfume, a scent she had missed so very much.

 

Yet even though Sameen was right there this time, Root didn’t reach for her, worried that maybe Sameen wasn’t actually there to stay.


	12. August (Part 2)

Root had never really loved mornings; she found them cold and confusing. She had spent so many of them trying to remember where she was, why she was there; waking up in strange places she didn’t remember going to. This time it seemed worse; with Sameen coming out of the shower and Bishop’s sunlight peeking through the curtains, Root had no idea how she had ended up here. She gazed absently at Sameen, not knowing where to go from here, what to do with herself.

 

She opened her mouth to say something, but the words got stuck in her throat. Even though nothing had happened between them, it had been so long since Root last shared a bed with Sameen that she had no idea where the lines were anymore. What she could and couldn’t do; where the limit was, and how much she could push it. Besides, in the few months they had been together, she had bolted out of Sameen’s apartment in a rush so many times that today it was almost painful to remain still.

 

“You need coffee,” Sameen replied with an awkward shrug, and Root noticed the slightest hesitation in her hands, like Sameen wasn’t really sure of what she was doing here either. “Well at least I do, so get your ass moving,” she ordered a bit more boldly.

 

Root smiled at the comforting and familiar grumpiness, slowly pulling the sheets off her. She tried not to notice Sameen’s eyes on her, slightly widening pupils that sparked something strangely close to arousal inside Root. “I need a shower,” she pointed towards the bathroom, repressing a chuckle when Sameen groaned impatiently.

 

She didn’t rush her time in the shower, joyfully savoring the scent of Sameen’s shampoo still lingering in the air. Yet little time had passed when Root returned to the bedroom, hair still dripping on her camisole. Something flashed in Sameen’s eyes and for a moment Root considered changing right there in front of her to try and force a reaction; to test the water, in a way. She hesitated, and Sameen made her choice for her; “I’ll be at the car.”

 

Nodding, Root waited until the door was completely closed before she changed into a t-shirt and a light pair of pants. Although the morning was cooler, she guessed the afternoon heat would be unbearable again and she cringed, hoping she could convince Sameen to stay in during those hours. She glanced at the bed and stopped the train of thoughts, quickly picking up her things and rushing out the door.

 

Leaning against the car frame, Sameen looked at her with a strange curl of the lips, like she wanted to tease Root but didn’t really dare.

 

“Pancakes?” Root asked without really waiting for an answer. She quickly slumped on the passenger seat and tried not to feel so warm and elated when Sameen sat behind the wheel without a word.

 

The empty fields surrounding the hotel almost gave Root vertigo; that flat horizon all around, like a fixed ocean that wouldn’t budge, she didn’t miss it. She muttered directions to the nearest restaurant, a small Mexican place where Hanna’s parents used to take Root and Hanna to dinner every now and then. Root repressed a shiver as they entered; even though the place had changed so much in the past years, everything felt the same.

 

Small, so very small, despite the vast horizon all around.

 

They ate in silence, Sameen barely looking up her plate as she swallowed her pancakes voraciously. Root didn’t really touch her eggs, sipping her coffee instead, and trying to get rid of the feeling that everyone was staring at her. As if she had picked up on the paranoia, Sameen sighed. “Stop it,” she warned Root, “and eat something.”

 

Root forced herself to eat some more, ignoring the worried gazes Sameen sent her every now and then. She had finished half her plate when she finally abandoned the task and Sameen only grabbed it from her, swallowing the rest of Root’s breakfast with something that seemed so very much like a smile. Root was starting to feel more at ease when Sameen asked; “where do you wanna go next?”

 

She hadn’t thought of what she wanted to do in Bishop exactly, and had Root been alone she would’ve spent most of her day sleeping, but now that Sameen was here she had to try and do something significant. She cleared her throat, “I think I have to visit someone.”

 

 

[...]

 

 

The sixth road was as narrow as Root remembered it, and despite the few trees trying to hide the flat line of the horizon, Root felt just as nauseous as before. Even more as she noticed the telephone poles angled downwards towards where they were headed; Restland Memory Park.

 

Root knew that rusty white fence all too well, even though she had been there only once, for her mother’s burial. As Sameen parked the car Root waited in silence, not even sure where the grave was. It had all happened in a rush, with Root trying to get rid of everything that had to be done; she hadn’t think of remembering where her mother’s lot was. It wasn’t as if she had planned on ever coming back anyway.

 

Sameen averted her eyes. “So,” she hesitated for a moment, “do you want to go alone or...?”

 

Root thought she preferred it when Sameen took all the decisions for her; when Root just had to follow Sameen’s rules to know that she would be okay. Now that she had to decide for herself all the time, everything was harder and more painful, and she constantly doubted where she was headed, what she was doing.

 

“No,” Root answered in a whisper. She didn’t dare look at Sameen when she added, “I want you to come with me.”

 

They didn’t say another word as they started walking down the rows, the unknown graves quickly surrounding them. It wasn’t a big cemetery and so Root knew she’d find her mother’s tombstone eventually, but she didn’t know where it was and it was starting to bother her more than she would have cared to admit. Behind her, Sameen didn’t say anything, and the more she remained silent, the angrier Root got.

 

Root was about to explode when she noticed a gravestone with a familiar name on it, and her heart stopped. For a moment she couldn’t breathe and her eyes watered, her throat closing painfully.

 

_Hanna Frey_ , it read in bulky grey letters and Root thought it was smaller than she had expected – although somehow, she hadn’t expected to find it at all.

 

She wondered what she was supposed to do – kneel before the headstone or talk to the empty space as if Hanna could hear? Somehow it seemed wrong, and Root only felt sick and awkward.

 

“I left her behind,” she muttered instead, not really sure of what she wanted to say to Sameen. Her heart beat wilder in her chest, yet remained heavy like a rock.

 

Sameen took a step closer and looked at the name. “Is that your friend? The one that was kidnapped?”

 

Root didn’t know how to say it; _kidnapping_ was right, but in so many ways it seemed to hide the truth. Hanna had been abused and murdered, and Root hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it. She simply nodded, scattering the dark thoughts she had spent so many years trying to forget.

 

Taking a deep breath to gain some courage, Root continued. “We were supposed to run to San Antonio together,” she smiled at the memory, tears still gathering.

 

Strangely her thoughts returned to the people she had seen in the restaurant earlier, the employees and the clients all looking just like they did when Root was a kid, only older and ruder, like they were broken in some way. She wondered who she would have turned out to be if she had stayed here; if she would have turned into a shell of a human being, just like her mother was. Root wondered what dead end job she would gotten, and what Hanna would have done if she hadn’t gone missing. If they ever would have ran away together, even though Hanna was too afraid of her father to leave, and Root felt like she couldn’t abandon her mother.

 

In the end they had both paid the price for not running away in time.

 

“But I left her behind,” Root repeated, and Sameen cleared her throat awkwardly.

 

“From what I’ve heard, you got her revenge,” she tried, body so stiff beside Root’s that she seemed like a soldier at attention.

 

Root wanted to ask about Cole, about how Sameen had killed the man responsible for his death and how she had managed to stop herself from bringing the whole ISA down, but Root couldn’t. Cole’s name didn’t belong in Bishop’s cemetery, and Root was just trying to hide again. To get Sameen talking about her past, so that Root wouldn’t have to confront hers.

 

She sighed. “I got him killed,” Root agreed, yet shook her head. “But she stayed buried there anyway.”

 

Sameen shrugged. “She was dead,” she spoke bluntly, cold eyes still locked on the headstone. “Nothing you could do about that.”

 

“Are you sure?” Root asked, her voice breaking. Hanna had been her friend, and if Root was being honest with herself, her first love, and she had left her remains there, in the cold ground where _he_ had hid her like the shameful secret Hanna had become.

 

Sameen didn’t answer, and Root’s heart skipped a beat.

 

She walked away then, slowly returning to the car, empty and exhausted. There was nothing else to do, no flowers to leave behind and even then, Root wondered if it was her place to honor Hanna’s memory in any way. If she was even allowed to.

 

It wasn’t enough that she had tried telling the truth, that she had called 911. Root thought she should have come forward, should have went to the sheriff herself. Then again, what power did the word of an alcoholic’s kid have against Mr Russell? He had a way with words and just enough money to convince people that he wasn’t the monster Root knew him to be.

 

She wondered what Barbara Russell looked like, now. The woman would probably be so much older now, and weakened by a truth she could no longer escape. She’d walk slowly under the sun, weighted down by a past she could never undo. She’d never have the strength to yell at Root again, to accuse her of being a liar and a brat seeking attention. For a moment Root remembered all those books she had sent her over the years, how all of them must have stung just a bit deeper, and she didn’t feel regret anymore. She didn’t feel like justice had been done either.

 

She just felt weak.

 

“Your friend, she met her I think,” Root spoke a bit louder than before, blinking when she met Sameen’s confused look. “Miss Russell, the librarian.”

 

“Carter?” Sameen added, surprised.

 

Root tried to ignore the flash of hurt that appeared in Sameen’s eyes. “Yeah,” Root continued as the pained look vanished. “When she reopened Hanna’s case, she interviewed her.”

 

Shaw shrugged, uncomfortable. “What’s your point?”

 

“Fusco told me that Carter always saw the good in people,” Root looked away, crossing her arms as if trying to shut the whole world out, but she knew it wouldn’t work. A soft wind blew over the trees around them as she kicked the ground absently. “Do you think she pitied her?” Root turned to look at Sameen again. “Do you think she saw her as a naive, goodhearted woman who had just fallen in love with the wrong guy?”

 

Sameen sighed loudly, evidently eager to close the subject. “I don’t know, Root.”

 

“Do you think it’s possible?” Root challenged. “To fall in love with a killer and not know?”

 

Averting her eyes for a moment, Sameen carefully picked her words. “I think we both know killers are great liars.”

 

Root felt the blow, even though she knew Sameen had tried to soften it. She didn’t like to think of herself as a liar. Apart from when she was pretending to be someone else, she never really _lied_ , or at least, she thought so. It was a fine line between lying and deceiving, and she had done plenty of the latter.

 

As they started walking again Root kept quiet, thinking of deceivers and killers, and how good she was at being both.

 

“I think I’d rather go,” Root explained as they reached the parking lot.

 

“I thought you wanted to find your mother’s grave,” Sameen suggested, her hands awkwardly hidden in her shorts’ pockets.

 

“This is...” Root gazed at the cemetery and shook her head. “Not what I expected.”

 

Sameen frowned. “What did you expect?”

 

It was hard to explain, especially since Root hadn’t come to Bishop with a plan, really. Just a feeling that she needed to come here again; to stop running.

 

“I thought it would mean something,” she whispered, biting her lower lip. But it didn’t. Restland Memory Park was empty and flat like the rest of Bishop’s horizon, and Root wondered if there would be nothing but bare fields around her for the rest of her life.

 

 

[...]

 

 

Root waited in the car like Sameen had asked, twisting her hands on her lap. _I thought you said you sold it_ , she kept hearing Sameen’s words. The hurt in them.

 

She had apologised, like she always did, but Root could still feel Sameen’s anger, and Sameen was right. Root had so many lies behind her that she couldn’t keep track of them – and maybe that was what she was doing in Bishop. Going back to square one, and starting again, differently. She hadn’t told that to Sameen, though. She couldn’t make one more promise that she didn’t know she was going to keep.

 

Sameen returned to the car with a large construction hammer hanging from her hand and threw it on the backseat before she sat behind the wheel again.

 

“What is that for?” Root questioned, but Sameen ignored her.

 

Root kept her mouth shut as Sameen drove them around Bishop, every minute bringing them closer to Root’s old home. She felt her chest tightening as they crossed the tracks, the landscape before her familiar but altered, somehow, just like Root was. Nobody in town had recognised her, and she wondered if it was because of what she had done, of all the blood she had spilled. She took a deep breath as they turned on her old street, trying to rid herself of the guilt that threatened to choke her.

 

Sameen must have sensed the shift in the air, because she glanced at Root and slowed down the car. “We don’t have to go,” she whispered and Root thought of asking her to turn around, or to stop to the side so that she could just _breathe_ , but instead she just let out a faint “it’s okay” and avoided Sameen’s worried eyes.

 

There was the carcass of an old car in what used to be the driveway and Sameen parked beside it, glaring at it in disgust. Root stared at the house for a moment, her heart weighting heavily in her chest.

 

It was just a small mobile home that had been dumped there, really, and that now stood crooked, but in Root’s mind it appeared larger and darker, almost dangerous.

 

And maybe it was; there were large planks of wood barricading broken windows and Root wondered how they had gotten there. Over the years, she had continued paying the taxes for the house like a second habit, but she never returned to maintain it, and never tasked anyone into doing so either. She settled on the thought that maybe someone had decided to crash there; that maybe it had become some stranger’s refuge in the last decade or so, and that made her feel a bit better.

 

Sameen undid her seat belt and turned to look at Root, and Root felt her cheeks reddening as she tried to gather the strength to step out of the car.

 

“I need some courage,” Root almost painfully admitted.

 

“Is that a codename for booze?” Sameen asked with a devilish smirk, “’cause I don’t have any.”

 

Root glared at her, seeing Sameen’s eyes softening. “Very funny, Sam.”

 

She finally opened the door and stepped out of the car, but as she walked towards the house she hesitated, and ended up sitting on the front hood of Sameen’s rental car instead. The sun was hot and she worried for a second that she would get sunburned, but it didn’t matter that much; she just couldn’t go inside. Not yet.

 

Sameen sighed before she joined Root. “You know, you’ll end up making a bump on it, sitting like that,” she complained, but Root didn’t reply anything. She looked at her old home and tried not to picture her younger self running around the house with Hanna, playing tag without a care in the world. Forgetting toys in the sandy and yellowed grass, only to find them months later, discolored and dirty.

 

“We gonna stare at it all day?” Sameen asked again, nudging Root with her elbow.

 

“Why are you here?” Root questioned back, not really expecting an answer.

 

Sameen cleared her throat, but she didn’t answer. She averted her eyes and Root felt her heart beating wild, thinking of how she wanted to be with Sameen again, how she wished that this was what Sameen’s presence meant. A second chance.

 

She wasn’t sure she deserved one.

 

Root swallowed hard and got off the car, walking towards the house as she ran a nervous hand through her hair.

 

It didn’t look like much now that it was up-close; it tipped on one side and smelled like mold and humidity, and when she opened the door it was only worse. The interior was trashed, and she found broken bottles lying around here and then with beer cans and cigarettes butts. She continued towards the kitchen, finding the sink still in place, rusty and dirty.

 

The whole house looked devastated and somehow Root felt like it was how it had always been, anyway. Not really a home; just a roof over her head, nothing that would keep anyone safe for long. She continued without a word towards what had been her room, Sameen following behind, and tried to ignore her presence as she pushed the door open.

 

It creaked and it made Root think of the stories kids in Bishop probably told each other about this place. That maybe they believed it was haunted. She wondered if they thought it was Hanna’s ghost lurking around here, forever tied to this place; if Hanna somehow lived on through crazy children’s tales. Root wondered if that was a comforting thought, or if it was just unsettling. She shook her head and stared at the graffiti on the walls instead.

 

Some letters in hearts, some names that didn’t remind Root of anyone she’d know. Some hardly poetic sentences about death. She imagined the people coming through here, partying and destroying the property and it felt strangely right. She pictured a younger version of herself standing there, by the window, and staring back at her in the middle of the chaos.

 

Root wondered what that Sam would think of her. If she would trust that Root had done well for herself, or if she would be angry about everything she had done with her life. She figured Sam wouldn’t say anything; she never really did. Sam was too shy to speak, too afraid to confront anything. The only time Sam had spoken up, she had been told she was a liar. Then, she had become Root, and forgot for so long what fear was like.

 

Behind her, Sameen stood still and awkward. “This your bedroom?” she asked with a slight hesitation. Root smiled; Sameen always tried to ask questions lately, to make her talk, as if she couldn’t stand the silence or if she was worried about her. Either way, Root felt touched.

 

“It was,” she admitted, stepping in. It was smaller than she remembered, and the closet looked like it wasn’t in the right place, but maybe that was just her. Maybe she had just rewritten those memories so often that nothing about it felt real anymore.

 

She turned to look at Sameen, who kept her eyes locked in Root’s. Somehow the place felt warmer now, and Root smiled sadly. “I didn’t think I’d see it again,” she simply said, and Sameen nodded like she knew what she meant, but she couldn’t. Sameen had grown up with a mother who loved her, who had learned to live with Sameen’s difference and who had found a way to stay in touch with her daughter despite everything. Root never had that.

 

Root had a mother who had imposed her own problems on her daughter, and suddenly the room felt too small, too hot, and Root couldn’t breathe. She walked past Sameen without a word, her eyes burning up, and went for the backyard. Sameen followed closely, quiet.

 

The sun didn’t make it better, but with the wind breezing against her face Root felt she could breathe a little more. She heard Sameen’s footsteps and turned around.

 

“Please don’t,” she stopped her, and Sameen frowned. “You were about to ask if I was okay.”

 

Sameen flinched. “I wasn’t,” she disagreed, but Root could hear the lie.

 

“You were,” Root argued. She gazed at the trees and then the house, and somehow she felt trapped between them. She sighed, returning her attention to Sameen. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

 

Root’s eyes filled with tears as Sameen shook her head. “I’m really just here to help, Root.”

 

“So you bought me a hammer?” she replied, a sob mixed with a chuckle.

 

Sameen smiled. “Well I thought it would be therapeutic.”

 

Root didn’t know what to say. There was anger swelling inside her but she couldn’t explain where it came from, bubbling under the skin and threatening to explode. She walked around the house to get back to the car, opening it and grabbing the hammer without a word. She didn’t bother closing the door; she just went back inside the house with her heart beating fast, frustration buzzing in her ears and making her almost nauseous until she lifted the hammer and smashed it into one of the living room walls, right in the middle of a graffiti.

 

She hadn’t noticed that she had yelled until she saw Sameen’s smug smirk.

 

“That does anything for you?” Root mocked, anger still in her voice, but it didn’t deter Sameen from staring. Leaning against the door frame, Sameen remained still as Root lifted the hammer again, feeling her shoulder protesting the weight as she threw it into the wall again, making another hole, and another, and another.

 

After the fifth hit she turned to Sameen, noticing she was still gazing at her.

 

“Want to have your hand at it?” she suggested, angling the hammer towards Sameen.

 

Sameen frowned. “It’s yours to break.”

 

Root swallowed hard, feeling her heart skipping a beat. “I thought you were here to help.”

 

Sameen hesitated a moment before she stepped forward, her hand brushing Root’s as she grabbed the hammer. “Yeah, okay,” she smirked. “Might want to take a step back.”

 

Root rolled her eyes, and Sameen threw the hammer into the wall, sending dust all over them. Root coughed a bit and blinked, seeing white dust settling all over Sameen’s black clothes and into her hair. She smiled.

 

“White’s not your color,” Root stole the hammer and sent it into the wall again, grinning.

 

They smashed holes here and there, taking turns with the hammer until Root’s arms ached and her lungs burned. When she finally returned outside to breathe, Sameen followed without a word, smiling. They sat down on the porch, eyes on the car, and Root shifted to sit closer to Sameen, focusing on the regular pattern of Sameen’s breaths. She closed her eyes and leaned on Sameen’s shoulder, and felt an arm moving to welcome her, a hand setting on her side.

 

“Thank you,” Root whispered in the crook of Sameen’s neck, and felt her tensing up. She sighed but stayed there nonetheless, unsure of what it meant, but settled on enjoying the quiet moment.

 

Sameen cleared her throat. “So this is where you grew up, huh?”

 

Root shifted back up, moving to lean with her back against the balcony’s ramp, ignoring the wood paint chipping off, and sticking on the fabric of her t-shirt.

 

“It is,” she bit her lower lip.

 

Sameen took another look around. “It’s small.”

 

“It really is,” Root replied with a sigh.

 

“I would’ve hated it here,” Sameen confessed, adding a bit of pressure to her hold on Root’s side.

 

Root laughed lightly. “Yeah, well I did hate it here.”

 

Sameen waited a moment before she spoke again. “Was there anything you liked?”

 

Root hadn’t expected another question and she blinked, uncertain of what to say. She thought about Hanna and their time together, having a friend for once and not feeling alone all the time. Having someone who could understand her. She wondered if she would ever have that again.

 

But then there was the hammer, and Prague, and all those times Sameen had known exactly what Root needed. She didn’t know if it was luck or coincidence, or because Sameen understood Root more than she let on.

 

Sameen didn’t insist and Root continued to think back to her years with Hanna, to the summers they spent at the lake and running around the backyard.

 

“We built a tree house once,” Root stated out of the blue, but it sounded almost like a question. Sameen turned to face her.

 

“Around here?” Sameen asked, and Root nodded, standing up.

 

Sameen followed as Root circled the house and found a path between the trees, wild grass rising even though there wasn’t anything there when she was a kid. “Do you want to see if it’s still there?”

 

“Lead the way,” Sameen offered with a shrug and an awkward smile.


	13. August (Part 3)

From the old tree house Hanna and Sam had built, all that remained was a shaky tower and its tipped platform, and yet Root didn’t hesitate to climb it. The wood felt strangely warm against her palms as she went up the short ladder, barely hearing Sameen’s sighs coming from under her. She tentatively put some weight on the platform to see if it would hold; content on the result, Root pushed herself up there before she settled on one end, sitting with her knees bent up and pressed against her chest.

 

She hardly noticed Sameen climbing behind her and taking place by her side, busy as she was reacquainting herself with the view. From the platform they could see the small forest surrounding her home and the railroad passing nearby; Bishop’s flat horizon all around, its little houses divided by the tracks like one giant scar running through town.

 

As the sun hit them unapologetically, Root took a deep breath, savoring the incoming of air in her dusty lungs. She quietly sighed, her chest feeling oddly heavy as she turned to Sameen. Nervous, Root bit her lower lip, trying to steady the fast beating of her heart as she read hunger in Sameen’s eyes.

 

“I like it here,” she whispered, her eyes betraying her; they locked on Sameen’s lips and the landscape around seemed to disappear. “It’s quiet.”

 

There was something electric about the air between them and for a moment Root wondered if a storm was on the way, but she didn’t feel like searching for dark clouds. Instead, she let her mind wander on her time with Sameen and how she had messed it up. How she had forced herself into Sameen’s life but had never allowed Sameen in hers.

 

She thought of the hammer and pulled in a sharp breath.

 

Sameen stared at her with a puzzling smirk. “It would be more quiet if you stopped thinking so loud,” she teased.

 

Before Root could realise that Sameen was leaning in, already warm and eager lips had found hers. Despite the uncomfortable heat Root pulled Sameen closer, her hand snaking its way behind Sameen’s neck. Sameen deepened the kiss and Root allowed her tongue in, repressing a slight moan as Sameen moved slowly against her.

 

She wasn’t sure whether it was of her own accord or because of Sameen’s patient hands, but Root quickly found herself lying on her back, feeling the air running through her curls as her hair fell down the platform. Sameen stayed close, her teeth gently nipping the base of Root’s neck and Root swallowed hard, tugging on Sameen’s tank top, pushing and pulling all the same.

 

“Root,” Sameen whispered in her good ear and Root closed her eyes again, listening to the sound of the wind rushing through the leaves, tickling her sweaty skin. “Are you okay?”

 

Root took a deep breath, biting down on her lower lip. It seemed like a lot to take in; as if the world was spinning faster than usual, like she was going to roll off the platform any time now, and she wouldn’t be able to stop it. She shook her head anyway and held onto Sameen, who groaned into her ear before she gnawed her earlobe, and her warm breath caused Root to shiver. She let out a chuckle then, a sob in her throat, and Sameen pulled apart, waiting for an explanation.

 

“It’s nothing,” Root smiled, cupping Sameen’s cheek with her palm. “I’m okay.”

 

Sameen frowned, yet she leaned down anyway, bringing their lips together again. Her tongue ran across Root’s lips, insistent, and Root allowed her in, breathing down deeply as Sameen settled on top of her. Root’s back grinded against the wood board almost deliciously, a quiet pain that ran all the way up to her neck. Sameen’s hand brushed down Root’s side and came to rest at her hip, familiar warmth embracing the curve.

 

“Shaw?” Root asked, breaking the kiss.

 

Without saying a word, Sameen worriedly moved to the side, one hand tangling in Root’s hair as the other palm remained warmly pressed on her hipbone.

 

“I don’t–,” Root averted her eyes, waiting a few seconds before she returned her watered gaze to Sameen. Her throat tightened, she found it impossible to say the words.

 

“What is it, Groves?” Sameen flashed a smirk, kneading at Root’s skin, fingertips dangerously slipping under her shirt. “Do you want me to stop?”

 

Root sighed, closing her eyes. “I know what you’re doing,” she protested. She couldn’t find it in herself to actually say it, but she knew Sameen had understood her loud and clear. Sameen was being gentle, too gentle, and Root felt like she couldn’t breathe.

 

“Do you?” Sameen insisted, pulling on Root’s hair as if reinforcing her point. She let a few seconds of silence linger between them before she spoke again. “You didn’t answer me,” Sameen ran a hand up Root’s side, fingers trailing the curves she knew by heart until her palm finally rested over Root’s lower ribcage.

 

Root tightened her lips into a line. “No,” she finally let out. When Sameen’s hand pulled apart from her, Root opened her eyes again. She grabbed Sameen’s wrist and tugged her closer; “don’t stop.”

 

Sameen groaned in protest, and yet her thumb returned to draw circles just above Root’s hipbone.

 

“But do you have to be so gentle?” Root blurted, and Sameen waited a few seconds before she replied.

 

“No,” she answered before she bit on Root’s lip, yet barely hurting her. “But I think you need me to.”

 

Root shook her head, feeling another sob running up her throat, but Sameen kissed her warmly as her hand slipped under Root’s shirt, adding pleasure to the sadness that sat heavy in Root’s chest. “Just this once,” Sameen promised and it made Root squirm under her.

 

When Sameen’s mouth sucked on the skin just above the collar of Root’s t-shirt, Root stopped protesting. Sameen’s hand reached her breast, teasing and kneading as Root’s fingers dug inside Sameen’s shoulder, urging her on.

 

The platform started to tremble slightly as a low rumble reached them from across the trees. The train’s loud siren invaded the woods for a moment, covering Root’s whimper as Sameen’s nails raked against her skin.

 

“Is this gonna hold?” Sameen worried in Root’s ears as the platform dangerously shook, and she had the good reflex of pulling her hand out from under Root’s t-shirt just before it broke with a loud crack, sending them down the tree. They reached the ground with a quiet thump, the roots and rocks biting into skin as the shock spread through their limbs, pain seemingly running through bones and nerves alike.

 

“Are you okay?” Sameen asked but Root replied with a groan, arousal only spiking again as she rolled over Sameen, kissing her hungrily. Sameen seemed to welcome the change as she pressed her hands against Root’s back, fingertips digging in her skin.

 

Root’s curls fell on Sameen’s face as Root leaned to bite her neck, Sameen’s perfume pleasantly mixing with the humid scent of the ground, the dirt below them almost cold to the touch. All of a sudden Root felt so impossibly hot, like she couldn’t find relief and she took her t-shirt off, ignoring Sameen’s smirk as she tossed it aside impatiently.

 

“Eager, aren’t you?” Sameen mocked, but Root shook her head.

 

“Shut up,” she whispered, “we’re done talking.”

 

Sameen didn’t argue when Root’s tongue trailed down her neck, her own hands running on Root’s bare skin, caressing every inch she could find and revelling on the thin layer of sweat trickling down Root’s back.

 

When Root grinded against her thigh Sameen groaned in frustration, some pointy rock digging hard into her back – or maybe it was the wood from the platform, she couldn’t really tell. Root licked her lips before she bent down again, purring against Sameen.

 

“You smell so good,” she licked just under her ear and Sameen grunted.

 

“I thought you said we were done talking,” she protested.

 

“We are,” Root murmured against her. “But you really, really smell good.”

 

Sameen grunted again before she crashed their lips together. Root leaned into her, smirking into the kiss and hissing when Sameen’s palm pressed down on an invisible bruise caused by the fall. Sameen frowned but Root urged her on anyway, her hands running over Sameen’s clothes but never quite getting under it.

 

Scratching the skin of Root’s back, Sameen’s hands ran wildly and Root hummed in approval, tugging on Sameen’s hair harshly as if trying to pull her closer. She straddled Sameen’s thigh once again, sighing as if the position wasn’t satisfying enough, and Sameen smirked. Root rolled her eyes in response before she leaned down to bite on Sameen’s earlobe, the fabric of her pants slowly turning cold and wet from the soil.

 

Sameen pushed herself off the ground, forcing Root into a sitting position instead. Root groaned as her muscles protested the sudden movement, her back still hurting from the fall. Still, Root managed to remain on top of Sameen, knees digging in the wet forest ground as her hands slipped under Sameen’s tank top, fingers deftly massaging the muscles on the way. Sameen pressed herself harder against Root, the heat becoming almost unbearable. Root glanced to the side and then pulled apart to stand up, which only granted her a groan from Sameen, who followed anyway.

 

She pressed Root against the tree where the tree house had been built, and for a moment Root stared at her, at how gorgeous Sameen was against the green background, the sunlight falling on her with the shadows of the leaves and Root thought she had never seen anything quite as beautiful as that.

 

Sameen grinned as she leaned to bite on Root’s lips, a quick nip that left her wanting more even as Sameen’s hand cupped her breast, kneading her until Root closed her eyes, knees weakening. Sameen’s fingers teased the nipple as her other hand slowly slipped into Root’s pants, finding her ready and eager, and she smiled as she ran a digit down Root’s labia, teasing.

 

“Shaw,” Root whispered, eyes still closed, “take your time.”

 

She opened her eyes again to see the surprise on Sameen’s face and savored it, the way it flashed so rarely on her traits. She pressed one hand on Sameen’s waist, urging her closer as her other hand grabbed her neck and crashed their lips together. The kiss was urgent, rushed and desperate, but the hand that rocked against her was painfully slow and Root smirked into the kiss.

 

“Yes, like that,” she almost moaned, feeling the heat dripping from her, her back scratching against the tree and she knew it would redden the skin and leave some faint marks but she didn’t mind. All she wanted was for time to stop as the wind rose again in the woods, singing songs she hadn’t heard in a very long time.

 

She closed her eyes once more, swaying in rhythm with Sameen’s hand inside her, only a finger curling inside her and that made her want to explode. She bit down her lip instead of asking for more and smirked when Sameen added another, teeth finding the crook of Root’s neck and biting hard.

 

Root moaned then, almost too loudly but they were alone, she remembered, alone in this world just the two of them, and no one was there to hear. She felt the bark scratching her palms as she held onto the tree with one hand, the other snaked around Sameen’s neck, fingernails digging into her skin. She knew she was close but somehow she didn’t want to come so soon; she wanted to hold onto this for a bit longer and she heard Sameen groaning against her chest.

 

“It’s okay Root,” she muttered, voice low and her breathing scarce, and that snapped Root out of it. She thought of how much she wanted to feel Sameen too, how she needed to hear her come against her and Root smiled.

 

“Sameen, now,” she simply whispered and heard a grunt of approval, feeling a third finger slipping in and the shift in speed came crashing in her like a tidal wave. Root breathed deeply, still trying to delay the inevitable even as she felt her stomach burning wild. She came hard, Sameen’s hand moving relentlessly against her and she cried out her name again, urgently, like a desperate prayer that shook her ribcage and she held onto Sameen as her foot slipped on the soil.

 

Sameen laughed lightly against her, for the loud moan or the loss of balance Root didn’t know, and didn’t care much. She smiled, closing her eyes and resting with her back against the tree, the bark dry and rude against her, unlike Sameen’s soft warmth.

 

Sameen’s fingers left her slowly and she opened her eyes again, staring as Sameen licked them clean, something Root often did but Sameen so rarely, and Root felt a tug inside, warmth spreading in her chest. She crashed their lips together, tasting her own arousal on Sameen’s tongue. She used the momentum to spin around, pressing Sameen against the tree instead, and running her hands on her clothes as if searching for a way in.

 

Sameen smirked until Root slipped a hand under her tank top, grasping her breast roughly enough to pull out a hiss and Root grinned. Sameen didn’t protest much as Root continued to press herself against her, one hand undoing her belt as the other raked nails on her back.

 

She pushed Sameen’s pants down, revealing the skin and felt a slight hesitation in Sameen’s tensed limbs. Root leaned into Sameen neck, sucking at her pulse point before she added, “trust me.”

 

Sameen nodded without a word and Root took it as an approval, and she kissed and bit Sameen’s lips once more before she knelt in front of her. The soil was still cold and wet under her knees, turning the fabric of her pants into another color, but Root didn’t mind. The smell of summer mixed with Sameen’s sweat and arousal made her want to feel Sameen’s fingers inside her all over again, and she grinned as she bit on Sameen’s inner thigh, finding the skin hot and throbbing.

 

She angled her head up, taking one look at Sameen who had closed her eyes and rested her head against the tree, her hair falling haphazardly from how she had it tied up and Root smiled at the sight, dutifully recording every detail. It was almost with reverence that she finally returned her attention to Sameen’s wet centre, running the tip of her tongue down her labia and hearing a faint groan from above her.

 

“Don’t tease, Root,” Sameen asked, and Root laughed, her breath coming to tickle down Sameen’s thigh and she knew Sameen was frustrated when she felt a hand angrily fisting her hair, pulling roughly. She revelled on the small pain as she leaned closer again, one hand snaking around Sameen’s leg as the other scratched the skin all the way up Sameen’s back, steadying her as Root pressed her tongue further, teasing at the entrance before she ran all the way up her clit, tracing small circles around it.

 

She pressed two fingers inside Sameen and heard the shift in her breathing, her hips angling to welcome her as the hand against her head urged her on. Root grinned before she sucked on Sameen’s clit, making her groan loudly.

 

“Fuck,” she let out and Root moved apart, her fingers still moving with a relentless rhythm.

 

“Too much?” she purred and was rewarded with a glare.

 

“Just,” Sameen sighed in annoyance, “fuck, Root.”

 

Root felt smug as she returned to bite down Sameen’s labia lightly, feeling the muscles of Sameen’s thighs tensing and she licked to smoothen the skin before she slipped a third finger in, rough and fast. She returned her tongue to Sameen’s clit, teasing before she sucked again, a bit harder. Sameen let out a sound that seemed like a moan but wasn’t, like it was stuck in her throat and it pleasantly reminded Root of her name and she continued harder, barely listening to the joyful whistle of a nearby bird. Root forgot the woods and the sweat slowly drying on her skin that made her feel uncomfortable and itchy; all that remained was Sameen and the way she moved against her, so desperately, yet so naturally and when she came Root almost moaned, feeling like everything that had happened before had only led her to this moment, to this burst of energy that ran through Sameen and ended in Root’s chest.

 

She continued moving, refusing to stop and Root felt Sameen’s confusion slowly building into a second orgasm that came just as fast as the first one. Root grinned as she kissed Sameen’s thigh hungrily, hoping for more but allowing Sameen the rest, for now.

 

She grabbed Sameen’s pants and slowly moved them up as she returned to her feet and Sameen grabbed them from her, putting them back in place and rearranging her belt as Root watched with an amused grin. Sameen ignored her for a moment.

 

“What?” she finally groaned, impatient, and Root bit her lip.

 

“That was fun,” she sing-songed and Sameen sighed.

 

“You are so not smooth,” she complained before she pulled Root close, kissing her and tasting herself on Root’s lips. Root remained close, breathing in Sameen’s scent, her perfume mixing with the sweat and the arousal and making her want to start everything all over again. Sameen pulled apart, wincing; “it’s fucking hot.”

 

Root heard crickets screeching nearby and nodded. “Yeah, it is,” she purred, staring at Sameen and Sameen rolled her eyes.

 

“I meant, the weather,” she explained, pulling a leaf out of Root’s hair.

 

“So did I, Shaw,” Root grinned, leaning down to grab her t-shirt, shaking it to get rid of the leaves and dirt that had gathered on it before slipping it on.

 

“Shower?” Sameen suggested and Root agreed. Without another word, she lead Sameen out of the woods, focused on the calming sound of Sameen’s footsteps behind her, small branches creaking under her weight, making Root steady and sure.

 

They reached Root’s old house in no time and somehow it seemed insignificant now, like it had lost its power over her. Root looked at it in a different light, as if it wasn’t the same place that she had lived in, or like it was distant, as if on a photograph. She frowned and Sameen reached her side.

 

“I wish it was gone,” Root whispered.

 

Sameen shrugged before she left Root’s side to jog to the car. Despite her curiosity Root kept her eyes on the house, wondering how it had ever made her feel small and weak, when it could barely stand against the horizon. She smiled in surprise when Sameen returned with a gallon of gasoline and a lighter.

 

“Burn it down?” she suggested and Root kissed her again, biting Sameen’s lower lip so hard that her teeth broke the skin, pulling out blood that Root licked hungrily.

 

“Yes,” she whispered against Sameen, voice raspy and she noticed the arousal growing in Sameen’s eyes, making her wild and hot and Root thought about getting rid of her clothes again, but the shadow of the house still towered her too heavily.

 

Seemingly picking up on her trail of thoughts, Sameen smirked. “Can’t you wait for five minutes?” she shook her head smugly and Root pouted.

 

“You’re the one who started it,” Root replied suggestively before she grabbed the gallon from Sameen and headed towards the house.

 

She entered her old home with a small shiver, going through the few rooms once again as if clearing it, even though she knew, somehow, that it was still empty. She shared a look with Sameen before she unscrewed the lid, the smell of gasoline quickly filing the room. She looked at the space, wondering the safest way to burn it down without having the flames spread out to the outside quickly, to ensure she wouldn’t start a wildfire. Sameen waited at the entrance, patient and quiet.

 

“Do you want to do this alone?” Sameen asked and Root let a few seconds run before she nodded. Sameen took her leave without another word, and for a moment everything seemed unbearably quiet to Root. She breathed down deeply, tears filling her eyes again just as she heard a voice in her implant, suggesting the amount of gasoline to put in four different sections of the house and Root smiled.

 

“Thank you,” she replied, throat tightened by sobs Root wouldn’t allow. She followed the Machine’s instructions, the scent of gasoline rushing to her head and making her buzzed, but she tried to ignore it. “Are you going to make sure no one gets hurt?”

 

_Affirmative_ , the Machine promised, and Root smiled as she lit up a piece of paper and let it fall in the gasoline. The flames rapidly grew and Root didn’t waste time getting out of there, smelling like smoke and gasoline when she found Sameen leaning against the car.

 

“We done?” she asked as Root passed beside her to shove the empty tank in the trunk.

 

Root didn’t reply, instead she slumped down on the passenger seat and watched the smoke desperately leaving out the windows.

 

Sameen sat behind the wheel, turning on the ignition even as the flames started to spread, licking the roof with the quiet crackling of burning wood. She spared Root a look, waiting for her approval before driving off and Root nodded quietly, her eyes on the house.

 

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Root said like a promise and Sameen nodded, pulling out of the driveway before she drove back to the hotel silently.

 

As soon as they entered their room Sameen started to shed her clothes, walking towards the shower without a question or a doubt and Root followed, throwing her own clothes aside, noticing the soil and leaves and bits of the house still stuck in Sameen’s hair and on her skin. She absently thought that she probably looked the same; like a wreck.

 

She heard the water running and entered the restroom entirely bare, finding Sameen quietly waiting for her. Her eyes were warm and familiar as she looked at Root and Root felt her arousal spiking up once again.

 

“Come here,” Sameen ordered and Root came closer, shivering as Sameen’s fingers ran above her waist and came to rest on her back. Root looked at her expectantly, not knowing what Sameen wanted to do or say but Sameen remained quiet and still, her eyes boring into Root’s.

 

“What are we doing?” Root asked, her hand cupping Sameen’s cheek.

 

“I don’t know,” Sameen replied, her smile faltering. “Do you mind?”

 

Root smiled and shook her head, following Sameen under the running water and revelling in the cold that fell on her. It caused her to shiver and squirm, and yet relieved her of the sweat and dirt that had made her uncomfortable, as if making her anew. Sameen’s hand ran down her skin and she did the same, smirking when she noticed the bits of dust and dirt they had brought back with them, and that threatened to clot the shower drain. Root felt Sameen’s fingers in her hair and something grew in her chest, familiar warmth that made her want to cry in relief and Sameen frowned.

 

“You okay?” she asked and Root nodded, closing her eyes as she breathed down deeply.

 

They cleaned up quickly after that, exhausted and cold. The smell of soap and shampoo came to replace the one of the soil, sweat and gasoline, and Root almost missed it, although she did feel better now that she had gotten rid of it. As soon as they stepped out of the bathroom the heat returned, unwelcomed and tiring, and Root stretched her arms lazily.

 

“You want to nap again, don’t you?” Sameen stared at her and shook her head like Root was hopeless, and Root chuckled.

 

“It’s hot outside,” she complained as she walked towards the bedroom, pulling off the sheets and looking back at Sameen, who leaned against the wall. “Plus, I heard there’s a fire out there... might just try not to get in the way. Stay inside where it’s safe.”

 

Sameen rolled her eyes, annoyed. “Whatever.”

 

As Root slipped under the covers, Sameen grabbed the dirty clothes scattered around the room and placed them in a pile, looking at them like she wanted to burn them and that made Root smile. Finally, she grabbed the remote and opened the TV, moving towards the bed and flicking through the channels, the volume low enough that it simply added a low buzz in the background.

 

Sameen came to sit beside Root on the bed, sparing her a glance as she leaned with her back against the headboard, her arms around her knees. Root took in the sight of Sameen’s bare skin, the scars that were running here and there, some that she had never seen before.

 

There was a quiet sigh that filled the room and Root wasn’t sure if it came from her or not as Sameen rested one hand on Root’s back. As she buried her face in her pillow Root listened to Sameen’s breathing, the TV’s quiet hum, and she slowly fell asleep, relief flooding into her as Sameen’s limbs relaxed on the mattress. Even though she couldn’t hear it, Root pictured the sound of Sameen’s pulse, steady and sure, more than Root had ever been in her life. Only then she allowed herself to slip into unconsciousness, comfortable and safe, the sirens of Bishop’s fire trucks blaring in the distance.

 


End file.
